


we get old and get used to each other

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, and vastra and jenny are too in love to get involved in this shit, band au, clara is a cockblock, idk blame bree, in which twelve and river are divorced and pining, ramone keeps getting in the way, she's an enabler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River Song made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing to do with him when she’d thrown his own guitar at his head and walked out, taking her lovely voice and his heart with her. Whatever she wants now, it isn’t him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i'm gonna start walkin' out, just you wait and see

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Bree for being such an immense help when I was brainstorming this thing and to Kaz for being so enthusiastic about it that I wanted to finish it. It had nothing to do with her all caps threats, I swear. This fic is for them:) 
> 
> Story title from a letter Johnny Cash wrote to June Carter on her 65th birthday. Chapter title from their song Long Legged Guitar Pickin' Man. The song quoted in this chapter is This Time by Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

**DARILLIUM: a look inside the breakout rock band everyone is talking about**

 

_Since John Smith and River Song burst onto the music scene six months ago, they’ve captured our attention not only with their blatant onstage chemistry but with the rare ability to make us feel the full range of human emotion in just a few songs. They make us weep with ballads like “Always and Completely”; they make us laugh with their punk rock anthem “Love In Berlin”; they turn us on with the sultry croon of the summer smash hit “Screamer”._

_With such diversity in their debut album, Darillium’s rapid rise to fame comes as no surprise to anyone here at Rolling Stone. The first show to kickoff their international tour begins in London, with further tour dates to follow. Do yourselves a favor and get tickets by any means possible. Even if you hate music you won’t regret it - watching River Song flirt with both her microphone and lead guitarist John Smith is worth the price of admission._

 

-

 

**“We’re Bespoke”: an intimate interview with Darillium’s married duo**

 

_They arrive half an hour late, holding hands and whispering furtively to each other as they make their way to the table I reserved for our interview this afternoon. They sink into the chairs across from me and for a moment, I can only blink stupidly. I’ve seen them on magazine and album covers, from afar in my crappy seats at their show last night, but up close, River Song and John Smith are rock and roll royalty._

_Disheveled and dressed in black, dark sunglasses slipping down his nose and strange tattoos visible near the collar of shirt, Smith taps his fingers against the table as we talk, as though there’s a constant melody in his head and if he doesn’t beat out the rhythm he’ll go mad. The rings on his fingers scrape against the table with every thump. Song doesn’t seem to notice the constant tapping, sipping her tea and casting her husband sly, flirtatious glances through the unruly curls tumbling into her eyes. She’s more poised than her husband but even she has her share of tattoos. And she admits she doesn’t go anywhere without her trademark black leather jacket. She’s funny and quick and the soft, purring timbre of her voice not only makes it impossible to look away from her onstage but in a crowded cafe in the middle of the lunch rush._

_Smith spends the interview in a constant state of distraction, answering my questions with a glib impatience that might have been off-putting on anyone else. It’s easy to forgive him when his fingers still and his eyes soften every time he looks in his wife’s direction. The chemistry the two exude onstage is clearly not an act – every glance is heated, every touch electric, and this writer felt a bit like he was intruding every time they paid the slightest attention to one another._

_They both light up when they discuss their music, particularly their inspiration – which tends to come from one another. Smith calls her his muse and Song rolls her eyes good-naturedly, as if she’s heard it before, and swats at him with a muttered, “Really, sweetie. Could you be more of a sap?”_

_Smith raises a heavy brow at her and Song wrinkles her nose, an adorable expression entirely out of place on the queen of rock and roll. “Can I help it we’re bespoke?”_

_Song huffs and sips her tea but her husband captures one hand and kisses her knuckles in a gesture so flirtatiously tender that even she has trouble hiding her blush. “Oh, bugger off,” she mutters, and Smith leans back in his chair with a triumphant snort, fishing through his pockets for a cigarette._

_Which his ever helpful wife directs him to with a murmured, “Wrong pocket, darling.”_

_The cantankerous Smith and sultry Song might be a bit much to take individually, but together, they sing…_

 

-

 

**“Always and Completely”? NOT ANYMORE!**

 

_You heard it here first, folks – River Song and John Smith of the rock band Darillium have officially called it quits after months of rumored screaming matches, public disturbances, and canceled gigs. Our sources say the breakup has been a long time coming._

_“John was always jealous,” says one anonymous but close pal of the former couple. “River just got sick of dealing with it.”_

_Another source claims the breakup is all Song’s fault. “She hated the fame and the traveling. John lived for it. It was just never going to work.”_

_Get the full story in all its juicy details over on page six…_

 

-

 

He’s burned through three cigarettes, scared away five waitresses, signed six autographs, and still no sign of her. It’s infuriating. He’s always been the terrible timekeeper in their relationship; always late unless River was there to remind him he had somewhere he needed to be. And now here he is, anxiously smoking in the back booth of a noisy pub, waiting for his ex-wife to show the fuck up.

 

When she’d left all those years ago he’d been certain he’d never see her again. He’d contented himself with keeping track of her through the gossip rags, watching as she’d become a successful PR representative and oddly gratified that she never tried to sing with anyone else after him. The string of young, handsome men she’d gone through hadn’t been nearly as gratifying. Her scandalous tabloid escapades had tormented him the first few years after they split.

 

He’d waited a long time for her to find her way back to him but after twenty years, he’d more or less given up that ridiculous hope. And then she’d called. He’d nearly dropped the phone the moment he heard her voice on the other end.

 

_Hello sweetie_.

 

Swallowing roughly, John flicks the ash from his cigarette into his discarded whiskey and grits his teeth. Two words and he’s a helpless whelp all over again, ready and willing to do her bidding. She’d asked to meet him so they could talk and instead of hanging up on her, he’d only gripped his phone and asked, “Where?”

 

Christ, he hates himself for getting his hopes up because of a silly phone call. River Song made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing to do with him when she’d thrown his own guitar at his head and walked out, taking her lovely voice and his heart with her. Whatever she wants now, it isn’t him.

 

Still, every time the door to the pub opens and someone walks through, he stops breathing. He sighs through his teeth as someone else who isn’t River strolls in and takes a seat at the bar. Maybe she hadn’t called to rekindle what they’d once had but who’s to say he couldn’t persuade her once she arrives? Once upon a time, there hadn’t been much he couldn’t get River to agree to – including croon an explicit song he’d written about their sex life to a stadium filled with thousands of people. Getting her to agree to dinner should be simple.

 

The pub door opens again and John breathes in another drag of nicotine, eyes fastened on the door as a familiar figure slips inside. He inhales too much smoke at the sight of her and coughs, watching through watering eyes as she spots him and begins making her way through the crowd toward their booth.

 

She looks just the same as she did the day she left – unruly golden curls and fire-bright eyes – and he wonders idly if she actually ages. He’s still gaping at her rapidly approaching figure when he finally notices the dark-haired pudding brain trailing along behind her like a pup. He’s young but John knows from years of watching River flit from man to man that she rather likes them young these days.

 

He frowns, touching his fingertips to the graying hair at his temples. The prospect of dinner seems like a distant memory all of a sudden. He’ll be lucky if they can get through this – whatever this is – without being thrown out of the pub. River is close enough now that he can see the nervous edge to her smile and he relaxes somewhat, unclenching his jaw as she approaches.

 

Standing in front of him now, hands clasped and eyes soft, River studies him for a moment in silence and John does the same. She isn’t even wearing her leather jacket. He pictures it cast aside and gathering dust in some dark corner and his chest aches. He hates her new look, professional and polished and everything his River Song was not.

 

Her lips curl up into a soft, amused grin. “We can’t all spend our lives wearing too many rings and ratty hoodies and sunglasses indoors and expect to be taken seriously.”

 

He blinks at her, startled, before he remembers his old habit of thinking aloud in front of her. Apparently, River hasn’t lost her touch. Forcing his mouth into a frown, brows furrowing, he glances down at the silver rings stacked on his fingers and grumbles, “Who would ever want to be taken seriously? Sounds rubbish.”

 

River laughs and the sound takes him back twenty years, her hand tight in his and her lips against his neck. He swallows, squashing the memory quickly as she slides into the booth across from him and says, “It’s good to see you, John.”

 

He purses his lips and nods once, his throat too tight to return the sentiment. Eyes flickering to the young man who moves to settle in beside her, he asks, “Who’s this? Babysitting?”

 

Her eyes narrow and her hand reaches out to rest against the man’s bicep, fingers stroking casually. John clenches his teeth. “This is Ramone. Ramone, this is John. My ex.”

 

The dark-haired man grins broadly and reaches out to shake his hand. “It’s an honor, Sir. I’m a big fan -”

 

“Are you now?” John mutters, ignoring his outstretched hand as he stubs out his cigarette on a napkin. Ramone drops his hand back to his lap, looking lost. “Especially of River, eh? Probably had her posters on your wall when you were a wee tot?” He lifts his brows, watching Ramone blush and glance at River, not opening his mouth to deny it. John feels his lip curl. “Jack off to them, did you?”

 

Ramone sputters. “What, no -”

 

Unaffected, River rolls her eyes and casts a bored glance at her scandalized beau. “Ignore him. Give us a moment, won’t you, dear?”

 

Still blushing, Ramone nods and mumbles, “I’ll be at the bar.” He presses a quick kiss to River’s temple and scurries off, avoiding John’s gaze the whole time.

 

The moment he’s gone, River turns to glare at him. “Was that necessary?”

 

“Very much so.” John signals to a waitress and eyes River curiously. “Was he even alive when we had our first hit?”

 

“His age is none of your bloody business, thank you.”

 

The waitress approaches, smile plastered on her face. “What can I get you?”

 

“Another whiskey for me.” John gestures lazily to River. “She’ll have a glass of red, won’t you, River?”

 

River glares at him. He feels his mouth curl into an unfamiliar smile and doesn’t bother stifling it. “White,” she says, just to be contradictory. “The bottle, please.”

 

As their waitress nods and slips away, John leans back in his booth and taps his fingers idly against the table. River meets his stare unblinkingly and he has to fight hard to keep from slipping into old memories. It’s been so long and he can’t help but wonder if she still smells the same, if she’d still feel familiar under his hands, if she still likes to be held down and kissed with force, if she’d still make that obscene noise if he sank his teeth into her skin.

 

It’s too much and he looks away first, clearing his throat. “Just curious,” he begins, and out of the corner of his eye he sees River stiffen like she knows he’s about to be an arsehole. It’s somewhat of a comfort to know she still recognizes the signs of his impending arse-hattery. “Do you have to change his nappies for him or has he figured out how to go potty all by himself?”

 

River smiles sweetly. “Oh, he has a long way to go before he’ll need a nappy again. Can’t say the same for you though, can we, darling? Everything still in proper working order down there?”

 

He lifts a brow at her, unfazed. “Want to find out?”

 

She snorts. “No more talking until I have a drink. Deal?”

 

Suspecting she only wants something she can throw at him, John nods anyway, holding up his hands in surrender. They sit in silence as they wait for the return of their waitress and from his spot, John can see Ramone at the bar nursing a beer and mouthing the words to the song playing over the speakers. It’s one of his, though he isn’t singing it. He’d written it after River left and sold the rights to someone else, unable to bear the thought of actually performing it. It’s all he does now, writes music for other people.

 

_I wondered what might happen if I left this all behind._

_Would the wind be at my back?_

_Could I get you off my mind this time?_

 

He wonders idly if River knows he’d written it and that he’d written it for her. He wonders if she ever hears their songs on the radio and has to pause and remember like he does, if she ever walked out of the grocery store and left all of her things in the cart because she couldn’t listen to one more line of Always and Completely without losing her sodding mind.

 

Maybe it’s just him.

 

Finally, their waitress arrives with another whiskey for John and a glass of white wine for River, settling the remainder of the bottle on the table between them. “Can I get you anything else?”

 

River shakes her head, eyes fastened on John, and murmurs her thanks, waiting until the girl is out of earshot before she asks, “How’ve you been?”

 

He watches her sip her wine and shakes his head. “You didn’t ask me here to catch up.” It’s what he’d been hoping for, of course, but Ramone had quickly shot that idea to hell. One simply doesn’t bring one’s boy toy to see an ex-husband if romantic intentions are to be had. “What do you want, River?”

 

She sighs, looking almost regretful as she straightens and puts on that professional face he’s only ever seen her wear giving speeches at awards ceremonies. She’s more practiced at it now, slipping into the expression with ease, and he wonders if she uses it often in her new line of work. He wonders if it hurts, dimming those fires in her eyes.

 

“I’m sure you’ve noticed we’ve regained quite the loyal following these days.”

 

His lip curls in annoyance. He’s certainly noticed the change from older fans waving at him in the street to the wide-eyed, squealing younger generation snapping photographs on their iPhones as he browses the freezer section of Tesco. “What about it?”

 

“We’ve been discovered by a whole new generation. Album sales are through the roof again and I can’t think of a better time to jump on the bandwagon with the Rolling Stones and all the other geezers giving it one last go.” At John’s puzzled glance, River clarifies, “A reunion tour, obviously.”

 

He stares at her. “You want to do a reunion tour? With me?”

 

“ _Want_ is a very strong word,” River murmurs around a sip of wine. “I’m an opportunist, honey. You know that.”

 

John frowns, doing his best to ignore the pang in his chest one little pet name had caused. It’s hardly what he’d been hoping she wanted when she called but in some ways, it’s almost better. A tour means months of traveling, months of hotel rooms and airplane rides. Months of seeing River every day and most importantly, months of singing with her again when he thought those days were long over.

 

“You would be obligated to do all the things you hate, of course – interviews, photoshoots, dealing with the press.” She shrugs. “And I know it’s been awhile since you’ve been in front of a crowd -”

 

“Are you implying I’ve forgotten how to perform?” He raises a brow at her and River rolls her eyes at the innuendo. “Because I can assure you I am as capable as ever.”

 

She sets aside her glass and folds her hands on the table in front of her, meeting his gaze patiently. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll have to behave ourselves. No bickering or throwing things, no picking up right where we left off.”

 

“What?” He asks dryly, tapping one of his rings against the table. “You leaving me?”

 

Her gaze hardens and he watches her lips purse. “If that’s what you think happened.”

 

In a fit of childish pique, he shoves aside his drink and nearly knocks it to the floor. Only River’s quick hand stops it from sliding off the table and shattering. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, River? It’s not what I think happened – it’s what happened. You walked away. Period. End of story. No other bloody way to look at it.”

 

“Yes, alright,” she snaps, voice wavering, and the professional facade is gone now. He’s finally looking at his River, the rebellious little hellion with a temper to match his own. “I walked away first. But I did _not_ leave first and you are lying to yourself if you ever for one moment thought otherwise.”

 

He stares at her, every angry word drying up in his throat in the face of her quiet fury. Her hand trembles as she reaches for her wine glass, knocking back what’s left of it in one quick swallow. “River -”

 

“This was a mistake,” she mutters, and he watches in growing panic as she gathers her things. “Forget it-”

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

She pauses, handbag clutched in her white-knuckled fingers. “Sorry?”

 

He sighs, scrubbing a weary hand over his face. “The tour, the interviews, whatever the hell else you want.”

 

“Photoshoots,” she whispers faintly, still gaping at him.

 

“Yes.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Fine. The whole buggering lot.”

 

River swallows and it’s audible even over the last strains of the haunting melody he’d written, whispered words about getting over her on someone else’s lips. “Why?”

 

His gaze flickers across the room, in the direction of Ramone and the bar. The dark-haired young man meets his eyes through the crowd, frowning. He looks torn, like he doesn’t know if he should risk venturing closer yet or not. “How old is he? Your new lad?”

 

River sighs. “What does that have to do with -”

 

“Answer the question, dear.”

 

“Twenty-eight,” she snaps, glaring.

 

John smirks and slides from the booth, digging into his coat pocket and tossing a tip for the waitress next to his drinks. “I’ll be in touch. My people can call your people.”

 

As he turns to go, River calls after him and he turns to look at her one last time. “What changed your mind?”

 

He winks at her. “Spoilers.”

 

-

 

What he’s done doesn’t quite sink in until the announcement and tour dates have been released and the only thing left to do is panic. When River had suggested the tour, months of spending time with her sounded like a bloody dream but when he starts thinking about it he realizes he’s just signed away the last of his sanity.

 

Yes, he’ll see River every day but he won’t be able to touch her or hold her. And what’s truly fucking infuriating is that he hasn’t wanted that sort of tenderness in a long time. Not since River. He isn’t even sure he’d remember how to be that man again if she wanted it. On top of that particular torture, tours end. What will he do after it’s over? Go back to glimpsing her in the papers occasionally? John is something of a magnificent liar but even he cannot tell himself that will be enough and actually believe it.

 

Groaning, he sinks onto his sofa and props his booted feet up on the coffee table, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. “I’m fucked.”

 

A delicate snort from the direction of the armchair in the corner makes him scowl. “I think it’s rather romantic. Together again after all these years. You can’t tell me you haven’t been hoping for it. I know you too well, old friend.”

 

John lifts his head just enough to glare at Vastra, balancing a cup of tea on the arm of her chair and twirling a lock of lime green hair around her finger. “Romantic? She asked me to tour, not renew our bloody vows.”

 

Vastra shrugs, eyeing him calmly. “Perhaps one may lead to another.”

 

“Perhaps you should shove off,” he mutters, leaning his head back again. He laces his hands together over his stomach, trying desperately to quell the urge for a cigarette. Vastra never lets him smoke indoors, not even in his own home. “She’s hardly looking to rekindle our train wreck of a relationship. She’s got Ramone now.”

 

“Ramone?” Vastra sighs. “Let me guess, tall dark and handsome? Looks about eighteen?”

 

John frowns. “How did you know?”

 

“Because of the long line of men who came before him. None of which have ever lasted. Honestly, stop being childish.”

 

He scuffs his boot against the coffee table and bites down on his tongue before he can stick it out and prove her right. “So what if he doesn’t last? She left a long time ago and she’s had plenty of opportunity to change her mind and come back.”

 

“Quite a bit different when you’ll be standing right in front of her for months.” Vastra sips her tea. “Such quality time with you would make most rather murderous but River has always been a strange one. It might bring about some fond memories to have you so near again.”

 

John silently curses Vastra for voicing every well-hidden and pathetic hope he has, making it all sound possible when he sodding well knows differently. “What makes you so certain I’d take her back even if she asked?”

 

Vastra stares at him unblinkingly until John huffs and looks away again, rummaging through his pockets for a cigarette. “Don’t even think about it.”

 

Swearing under his breath, John abandons his search and goes back to crossing his arms and nudging his boot restlessly against the coffee table. “You’re not my sodding minder, you know.”

 

“No, that’s Clara’s job I would imagine. But I _am_ the only pianist who will put up with you for an entire international summer tour.”

 

He perks up a bit at that. “Does that mean you’ll do it? What about Jenny?”

 

Vastra nods. “Jenny and I wouldn’t miss this train wreck – forgive me – _tour_ for the world.”

 

Glaring, John gets out a cigarette and lights it with vengeance. Vastra watches him in quiet amusement but doesn’t protest, keeping him silent company until Clara wanders into the room with her mobile in hand and her face set with grim regret.

 

Dropping his feet to the floor and sitting up, John regards her warily. “Your eyes are doing that thing again. Stop it.”

 

Clara squints at him in an effort to hide her wide-eyed panic and it’s a piss poor attempt at best but John silently appreciates the gesture. She gives it up after a moment under his disbelieving gaze and opts for scrolling through her mobile instead, tapping out something as she avoids looking at him. “You’ve got interviews scheduled for the mid-week plus a joint interview and photo shoot for Entertainment Weekly with River at the weekend. We should be in Belgium by Monday, plenty of time for rehearsals before the tour kicks off.”

 

John nods slowly, wondering why there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach despite the efficient schedule Clara has plotted for the next week. He remains silent, watching cautiously as she keeps tapping at her mobile screen.

 

Apparently under no such impression, Vastra claps her hands together and beams so widely he can see her tongue ring poking out between her teeth. “Sounds perfect, Clara. What would we do without you and your schedules?”

 

“Shut it,” John mutters, waving a hand at her.

 

Vastra hums in surprise. “What now?”

 

He doesn’t dare take his eyes off his assistant. “She’s hiding something. Something bad.”

 

“Not bad!” Clara looks up instantly, eyes widening alarmingly all over again. John grimaces. “Just…potentially awkward.”

 

“Out with it,” he snaps. “And I swear if you start fiddling with your bloody mobile again, I’ll flush it down the shitter.”

 

“Ramone is going on tour with us as the drummer.”

 

John blinks at her. “Sorry, what?”

 

Clara bites her lip and offers her mobile a longing glance but doesn’t dare touch it. “Ramone, y’know, River’s -”

 

“I know who he is,” he says through gritted teeth. “Why the hell is he our new drummer? What happened to Strax?”

 

Clara shrugs. “It turns out building nuclear weapons for the government is quite lucrative. Doesn’t want to give it up to go wandering the globe banging two sticks and watching you eyefuck your ex – bugger if I know why.”

 

John glowers at her.

 

Offering him a saccharine smile, Clara eyes him tentatively. “Are you alright?”

 

Turning his attention to the cigarette still burning between his fingertips, John takes a long drag and ignores the knot in the pit of his stomach. Blowing out a breath of smoke, he asks, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

She stares at him, clearly at a loss. Vastra clears her throat delicately and offers, “It isn’t exactly ideal, going on tour with your ex and her new boyfriend. It can’t be what you were hoping for -”

 

“I wasn’t hoping for anything,” John snarls softly, avoiding their pitying gazes. “We’ve been divorced for twenty years. She can bring a whole sodding harem with her on tour for all I care. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clara and Vastra exchange a dubious glance.

 

He deflates, staring at the smoke still lingering in the air. “It’ll be fine.”


	2. i'm not the one you want, babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> River was always so much better at maintaining their public image. She was witty and charming and entertaining in ways he could never be bothered about – unless he was talking to her. River had a way of making him want to be impressive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from It Ain't Me Babe by Johnny Cash and June Carter.

He hasn’t seen or spoken to River since that afternoon in the pub, most of the planning and scheduling for the tour done by either Clara or River and her entourage. For the most part, he’s been left out of the process and that’s exactly how he prefers it. Unfortunately, however, it means that the next time he sees River they have an audience in the form of a wide-eyed young journalist eager to record their every fucking move for one hundred thousand subscribers to lap up.

 

“So tell me, John – can I call you John?”

 

River prods him in the side with an elbow before he can adamantly refuse. He scowls at her and River glares pointedly back at him over the rim of her coffee cup. _Be nice_ , her eyes say, and he remembers the look well.

 

She never cared if he was nice for the sake of being nice but the media held their public image in the palms of their greedy hands and River would happily slaughter him if he fucked up before their tour has even started. He grumbles sourly to himself and snaps his mouth shut.

 

Appeased, River relaxes and goes back to her coffee.

 

The reporter hasn’t even noticed their exchange, too busy fiddling with the recording app on her mobile. She balances it on her knee and picks up a pad of paper, ready to scribble down any nuances a sound bite might not detect.

 

“Did you ever think you would be working with your ex-wife after all these years? Performing your old songs? How does it feel to be together again?”

 

John frowns at her, fingers already tapping restlessly at his knee. He hates these tedious interviews. He just wants to be left alone to make music and he’s never quite been able to understand why being a musician has to involve so much time talking. His days would be better spent writing and playing – River was always so much better at maintaining their public image. She was witty and charming and entertaining in ways he could never be bothered about – unless he was talking to her. River had a way of making him want to be impressive.

 

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, curled up on the sofa beside him in this quiet coffeehouse and wearing that bloody professional attire of hers. She’s still River, of course, and there are traces of the old her still left – like the tattoo on her wrist that keeps peeking out from underneath the sleeve of her silk blouse – but she’s poised and rigid in ways that are utterly foreign to him. His River had been somehow elegant and untamable, sharp-tongued one moment and pressing her smiling lips to his jaw the next. It’s so hard to see her – the real her, the one he knows is still there beneath pressed business slacks and neatly pinned hair. He wonders with a pang if she’ll ever come back out to play.

 

Pursing his lips, he turns his attention back to the reporter and says, “To answer your first question, no I did not think I would ever work with my ex-wife again. She made the possibility of a reunion rather awkward when she threw my favorite guitar at my head on her way out the door.”

 

River offers him a quiet, warning glower.

 

“Of course,” he says, ignoring her. “I hadn’t counted on such a loyal, rabid fanbase rising up out of the ashes to force us together again.”

 

“Rabid?” The reporter leans forward, intrigued. “Could you clarify what you mean by that?”

 

“Fucking mad,” he explains, pointedly refusing to meet River’s furious gaze. Her irritation is palpable, like a literal heat against the side of his face. John struggles to keep the thrill of the moment from betraying him with a smile or even a crinkle of amusement in his eyes. River knows him too well to miss such blatant tells. “Probably keep voodoo dolls of us under their pillows and hide shrines in their closets.”

 

Once upon a time, antagonizing her had been a favorite pastime of his. It usually earned him a slap but her kisses weren’t far behind and it had made the brief sting of her palm entirely worth it. He has no hope of a good snog now but it’s enough to see her eyes light up and her cheeks flush. River loves a good row as much as he does. Or at least she used to.

 

She lays a hand on his arm and the bite of her nails is imperceptible to anyone but him. He winces, watching her offer the girl a smile so charming John has trouble hanging onto any resentment about the fucking permanent nail marks embedded in his skin. “Our fans are enthusiastic,” she says sweetly. “We love that about them. But we haven’t technically performed together again – rehearsals haven’t started just yet.”

 

She winks and the girl smiles, ducking her head to jot something down. John rolls his eyes, knowing he can expect a sentence waxing poetic about her ruddy charm in the article once it comes out. He can’t bring himself to care. While River hadn’t quite fallen into their old habit of tireless bickering, she hadn’t hesitated to jump into her role as mediator again, saving him from his troublesome Scottish mouth. It’s certainly better than nothing.

 

“And are you worried about whether that famous chemistry you two always had onstage will have changed over the years?”

 

John snorts. “The chemistry was always changing – we were friends, we were lovers, we hated each other.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees River flinch. For a moment, it gives him pause but he pushes on anyway. “People showed up to see us whether we were bickering between sets or late opening the show because we were too busy having a quickie backstage. I don’t think that’s changed.”

 

The reporter stares at him, wide-eyed, her fingers clenched around her pen. “You had quickies backstage?”

 

“Well, when the urge strikes location can’t always be helped-”

 

River wraps a firm hand around his wrist, cutting him off mid-sentence. John winces as her nails dig into his skin once again in silent warning, pouting a bit as she laughs – far too high and breathy to be genuine. “Some secrets are best kept, don’t you think, sweetie?”

 

He wrenches his hand from her grasp at the endearment, glaring at her. If her skin burns the way his does at the simple touch, she doesn’t let on. Instead she gives him one of those feral smiles that look entirely out of place on this put-together version of his wife and he has to fight back a triumphant grin. He can almost see her now, the old River.

 

She turns to the reporter and pastes on a coy smile. If he didn’t know her so well, he might not have detected the lingering irritation with him lacing her words. “I think what John means to say is if anyone is curious about our chemistry, they should come see one of our shows.”

 

The girl nods, her pen moving across her notepad. “Now, River we know you’ve gotten away from the music industry and moved into public relations – are you concerned this tour will be a difficult transition for you?”

 

“Not at all.” River relaxes marginally now that John isn’t the one answering the questions and therefore, unlikely to bugger things up. He watches as she leans back into the sofa cushions and dips her head slightly to inhale the steam wafting from her mug of coffee. “I may have taken a break from music but I never lost my love for it. I imagine being onstage again will be a bit like coming home.”

 

John stares at her with an ache in his chest but River avoids his gaze, her eyes fastened on her coffee. It’s the first time he’s truly thought about what it must have done to River, leaving behind the one thing she’d loved almost as much as him. All this time he’s been so busy being bitter about her leaving him and pleased that she never tried to go solo. That she’d abandoned it altogether. River had loved music and music had loved River. She lit up onstage and her voice – christ, her voice had been comparable to some bloody siren. She’d been vibrant and alive, his very own muse. She should never have left it and he hates that once he had rejoiced in that.

 

Lump in his throat and gaze firmly fixed on River, John doesn’t hear the reporter address him until she clears her throat and repeats, “You’re still writing songs, aren’t you, John?”

 

He tears his eyes away from River and swallows, nodding. “Never stopped.”

 

“Just not singing them anymore?”

 

“No.”

 

She leans forward, pen poised, the little viper. “Can I ask why you stopped singing? Or playing, for that matter? You were a brilliant guitarist.”

 

He mutters his thanks and frowns at his hands, wondering if there’s a way to say he stopped playing because being onstage without River had been unthinkable without actually saying it. When nothing particularly subtle comes to mind, he simply shrugs and says, “My talents felt better served behind the scenes.”

 

“As a lyricist?”

 

He nods.

 

“You’ve certainly given a lot of other artists some amazing hits.” She glances at her notes. “You always used to say your wife was your muse. Where would you say you get your inspiration now?”

 

Silently damning the girl to hell for latching onto the one thing he’d hoped no one would ever ask, John breathes out through his nose and stares her down. All the while, he keeps River in his periphery. “Memories.”

 

Head jerking up, River finally stops staring into her coffee to gape at him but John doesn’t give her the satisfaction of meeting her gaze. She’d left him with nothing but memories to keep him warm and he won’t apologize for using them to make a living.

 

“So there’s no one new in your life?”

 

Conscious of River’s eyes still on him, John clenches his jaw and gives a curt shake of his head. His pointed glare keeps the reporter from pursuing the question further. Clearly disappointed, she turns her attention to River instead.

 

“What about you, River? There’s a rumor that you’re seeing the new drummer for Darillium. Can you tell me if there’s any truth to that?”

 

“He’s the drummer _because_ she’s seeing him,” John grumbles under his breath. “The perks of fucking your boss.”

 

He’s fairly certain the reporter doesn’t hear him but River does, if the way her nostrils flare and her fingers clench around her cup are any indication. She doesn’t retaliate, keeping her eyes trained on the reporter. “Yes, Ramone and I are seeing each other.”

 

“Can you tell me anything about that?”

 

River shifts in her seat, hedging an uncertain glance at John. He stares balefully back at her, brows lifted. “Go on then. Don’t let me keep you from waxing poetic about your _young_ man.”

 

Her eyes narrow and he smirks. “He’s wonderful,” she says, turning away with a smile bright enough to make him flinch. “Sweet and handsome and full of _such_ energy.”

 

He doesn’t miss the insinuation. His teeth grind together and his nostrils flare but he doesn’t flinch. “That’s where we differ, I suppose. I like spotting a bird I fancy and asking her for a drink, not opening the door to my dressing room and picking the one who squeals loudest at the sight of me.”

 

River sets her coffee down on the table in front of them – loudly. “Ramone isn’t a groupie.”

 

She says it with such force John wonders if she even believes it. He doesn’t bring it up, folding his hands behind his head and lounging back in his seat with a guileless glance at her. “I don’t recall mentioning his name, dearest.”

 

River purses her lips so tightly together they nearly disappear and John hides a smile, meeting her stare unblinkingly. She’s positively alight with fury and indignation and he wonders if she realizes she looks more passionate and more alive in the middle of a row with him than she had singing the praises of her perfect Ramone. He’ll never point it out but he tucks the knowledge away, a balm to his bitter heart.

 

Clearing her throat and recapturing their attention, the reporter scrambles for her notepad. “Oh yeah,” she mumbles to herself, scribbling furiously. “The sparks are definitely still there.”

 

River huffs.

 

The photoshoot after the interview hardly improves her mood. Admittedly, John might be at fault for that considering he can’t seem to stop striving to irritate her. Funny, all these years apart and he’d forgotten how much fun it could be but the moment they’re together again it all comes rushing back. He feels like a junkie getting his first fix after a long dry spell.

 

“Must you be such an unbearable child?”

 

Swallowing a satisfied smirk at River’s low hiss, just quiet enough to escape the photographer’s notice, John stops giving her bunny ears and drops his hand to the small of her back instead. Given the intimacy of joint photoshoots, he’d had to get used to touching her again rather quickly.

 

“I don’t know,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “You would remember more than most, dear. Have I always been unbearable?”

 

Still smiling at the camera, River tosses her hair and her curls slap his cheek. While the photographer is busy capturing her smirk, she stomps pointedly on his foot. “Yes.”

 

He grimaces, waiting until she moves her foot again before he mumbles, “If I recall, you used to like how difficult I was.”

 

“No,” she says, turning to face him as their photographer keeps snapping away. She presses a hand to his chest and looks into his eyes and John can scarcely breathe, let alone recall this is all for nothing more than a magazine spread. Her fingers are right over his heart and he wonders self-consciously if she can feel it thudding away. “I used to like you in spite of your difficulty.”

 

“What happened?”

 

River turns her head to face the camera, smile frozen in place. John can’t bring himself to look away from her and the camera flashes on the image of her ignoring him as he gazes at her with longing clear enough to everyone but River. Story of his life, really.

 

Finally, she answers, “People change, John.”

 

At the photographer’s behest, she leans into him and John swallows, wrapping his arm snugly around her waist. He does as directed, slipping his fingers into her wild hair and tipping her head back so she can look at him. It’s a practiced move, one he did often enough when they were together. Doing it now brings with it an odd sense of deja vu. Fisting his hands in her hair and kissing her until she couldn’t breathe, let alone remember what she’d been yelling at him about.

 

He stares into her eyes and tries not to shudder. “I didn’t change.”

 

River leans up on her toes and presses her red mouth to his cheek, leaving an imprint the photographer captures with relish. “I never said you did.”

 

-

 

Ramone is holding her hand. Blatantly and unapologetically – his thumb caressing her knuckles casually, like holding River’s hand is something to be taken for granted instead of a fucking privilege Junior doesn’t even deserve.

 

John glares at their entwined hands over the pages of the book he hasn’t actually read a sentence of since their plane started taxiing down the runway two hours ago. The book had started off interesting but it’s quickly devolved into an illicit affair between the boring librarian and his much younger research partner and John doesn’t see any reason to keep reading when he can look up from the pages and see something equally stomach-churning anyway.

 

Flipping through a magazine with one hand, River doesn’t notice his quiet scrutiny or even Ramone’s entirely unnecessary caressing. She looks very far away and it takes John a moment to realize she’s reading the article written up about their tour. If he remembers correctly, it’s the same magazine that had interviewed them.

 

Ramone turns his head and kisses her temple, whispers something John suspects is sickeningly sweet and nauseating. Whatever he says, it makes River smile and turn her head, her nose brushing his. John feels his stomach lurch and quickly averts his gaze, remembering all too well when she used to smile at him with that same warmth. His eyes fall on the emergency exit and he wonders idly if he could reach it and fling himself out of the plane before anyone could stop him.

 

What had he been thinking agreeing to this tour? Hell, he knows exactly what he’d been thinking. He’d been thinking about River and months spent with her in close quarters, hearing her sing again. His head had been full of ways he could make her see he never stopped loving her, even long after she stopped giving a damn. Of course, she’d had to bugger up all of his embarrassingly sentimental fantasies by bringing along her boy toy. It had been a reality check John desperately needed but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t want to punish Ramone for it anyway.

 

Across the aisle and behind River and Ramone, Vastra glances between him and the emergency exit he’s still gazing at with longing. “Plotting your escape already?” She murmurs, quietly enough that she doesn’t catch the attention of the lovebirds in front of her. “Your tolerance for bullshit is slipping, John.”

 

He snorts, watching as Jenny leans over Vastra’s lap with a playfully stern, “Language, dear.”

 

A wee bit hypocritical coming from a woman who cheerfully swears like a sailor.

 

“Apologies, my love.” Vastra kisses her cheek and John wonders at how two wholly different people – a prim pianist with green hair and a penchant for corsets and tulle skirts and a petite violinist with more tattoos than fingers and toes – managed to make it work when he and River couldn’t. If he didn’t like the two of them so much, he might have resented their good fortune.

 

He leaves them to their little bubble of happiness and returns his attention to River and Ramone. They’re still holding hands but River has gone back to perusing her magazine, frowning at whatever she’s reading.

 

“Stop it.”

 

Startled by both the quiet command and the elbow digging into his side, he turns and stares at Clara in the seat beside him. “Stop what?”

 

“Staring, you numpty.” She huffs. “You’re being painfully obvious.”

 

“Am not.” He frowns. “Obvious about what?”

 

Clara blinks at him. “You’re kidding, right?” At his blank stare, she sighs and whispers, “If you’re not gazing at River like a besotted idiot then you’re trying to glare Ramone into an early grave. Seriously, if looks could kill a man then Ramone would be a bloody stain on his cushy first class seat.” She curls a firm hand around his wrist. “Save all that pent up tension for the stage and stop staring.”

 

“Staring is a crime now, is it?”

 

“John, as your assistant can’t you just trust that I’m trying to help you?”

 

Without breaking eye contact, he calls, “How’d the article turn out, River?”

 

Clara sighs.

 

Smirking, John turns and finds River already watching him – or rather, watching the way Clara’s fingers are curled tightly around his wrist. Her eyes narrow and her lips purse. He watches in fascination as her whole body stiffens, unable to believe she would actually give a damn. The little hypocrite.

 

“Quite well, actually,” she says stiffly, averting her gaze quickly back to the magazine in front of her. “They actually managed to make you sound charming.”

 

He snorts, snatching his wrist from Clara’s grip and shooing her away. She grumbles at him and turns back to the window and her trashy romance novel. “I didn’t realize I’d given them much to work with. I’ll have to try harder to be unbearable next time.”

 

River glances over her shoulder at him, clearly trying to stifle some of her exasperated amusement. When her eyes fall on his hands free of Clara’s grip and the girl herself turned away from him, she tugs her hand from Ramone’s and turns to face him in her seat. John feels an odd little thrill go through him at the small victory in his favor. Unable to decide between offering a smug glance at Clara or Ramone, he decides to gloat privately instead.

 

“You were in rare form,” she says dryly. “If they could fashion a charming likeness out of the petulant old man they interviewed, I can’t imagine you’ll ever get them to turn on you.”

 

“Pity,” he grumbles. “What made you hate me? Perhaps I should try that.”

 

She shakes her head, eyes pained. “I don’t -”

 

Ramone’s head appears over her shoulder. “Are you talking about the interview? I thought you said it went well?”

 

“It did,” River says, turning from John and leaving him to contemplate how easily he could shove Ramone out of the emergency exit instead. “No one was drunk, we didn’t scream at each other, and no furniture was harmed. Quite a rousing success for us.”

 

“And the reporter didn’t quit in the middle of the interview.” John smirks, watching River’s eyes widen in remembrance. “We were never featured in Melody Maker again thanks to you.”

 

“I only suggested his talents might be better served elsewhere,” she insists, shrugging innocently when Ramone gapes at her.

 

“Yes…” John taps his chin, frowning in thought – as if he doesn’t remember every moment with his bad girl in startling clarity. “As a monkey in the zoo, I think you said.”

 

Ramone coughs. “River! That’s terrible.”

 

“That’s nothing.” John scoffs. “Should have her the seen the time she -”

 

“John, don’t.”

 

“What? It was funny.” He looks at Ramone again, grinning with too many teeth. “Our old manager forced us to sign autographs for four hours after a show one night – finally she’d had enough, threw her pen at him and flashed an entire crowd of secondary school children and their parents in rebellion.” He laughs, genuine and hearty, as River flushes. “Never made you do anything again, did he? And I think you kickstarted puberty for a few of those lucky lads.”

 

“Oh shut up, John.”

 

Looking at her, eyes wide with faith she’ll tell him it’s all a lie, Ramone asks, “River?”

 

“It was a long time ago,” she mutters, looking admirably defiant with her eyes narrowed and her chin tipped up. “I was young.”

 

“You were brilliant,” John counters, and of course River doesn’t miss his emphasis on _were_. Her nostrils flare but all she does is shake her head and turn from him. He can’t help feeling a little disappointed but the feeling fades the moment he sees Ramone’s face.

 

The poor lad stares at River as though he’s never seen her before, as though he hadn’t realized the wild hellion underneath those business suits still existed. As though River had banished her in some self-inflicted exorcism instead of keeping her tightly contained on a damned leash. Trying to fit in, trying to pass for normal and boring when she’s always been anything but.

 

“Didn’t tell you about that, did she?” He tsks, watching River clench her teeth. “Hiding things from your beau, River? How disappointing.”

 

“Enough, John.” Clara slaps her book down on her lap and elbows him roughly. He stifles a yelp, turning to glower at her. She gives him a hard stare and he refrains from telling her she looks like a bonkers Margaret Keane painting when she does that. “You’ve made a proper arse of yourself – you can take a nap now.”

 

“Thank you, Clara,” River says, a glimmer of irritation lacing her voice. Not with him – he knows the sound of her voice when she’s annoyed with him by now and to be honest, he hasn’t done nearly enough for her to reach the end of her patience. Only River knows he’s very nearly behaving himself. Which means she’s annoyed because she’d been secretly enjoying herself or because she resents the implication she can’t handle John without his assistant’s help.

 

He’s willing to believe it’s a bit of both.

 

Grinning to himself, John leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. Maybe a nap isn’t such a bad idea.


	3. i find myself alone when each day is through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She already looks so much like the woman he remembers, full mouth flirting with the microphone and kohl-lined eyes bright and sultry, but hearing her sing makes it all so much worse. River sings like she lives, with both abandon and elegance. She sings in a way that makes grown men want to drop to their knees and weep, grateful just to be alive and listening to her. She’s like a bloody siren weaving a spell, drawing everyone into her gyre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Johnny Cash's I Walk The Line. The song River sings in this chapter is actually Young Gods by Halsey.

“Stop, stop -” Guitar hanging from its strap around his neck, John lets it bump against his thighs and whirls to glare at Ramone . “What the bloody hell was that?”

 

Ramone blinks at him. “I was playing the song.”

 

“Is that what that racket is supposed to be?” He stalks to the sheet music spread across Vastra’s piano and waves it about. “This song?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Didn’t recognize it.” He sniffs. “Not that I blame you. Can’t be easy holding drumsticks with those gorilla hands of yours -”

 

“Oi!” Ramone leaps from his seat, knocking against a cymbal while he’s at it and making everyone on stage wince at the clamor, including River still standing at the microphone. “I am not some beginner you can take the piss out of. I’ve played shows with-”

 

Eyes rolling back in his head, John drops his hands back to his guitar and strums a chord, playing over the sound of Ramone’s voice in an effort to drown him out. The riff quickly turns into a full blown melody until he’s playing the song they’re supposed to be rehearsing all on his own – loudly – and Ramone has finally shut up, glaring at him and silently fuming.

 

And then his guitar solo comes to an abrupt end, cut off by a sudden wave of static. Scowling, John spins around and finds River standing beside his amp, swinging the plug in her hand. She’s wearing her old leather jacket today and ever since the moment she’d walked onstage, curls brushing her upturned collar, he’s had a difficult time focusing on anything else. It’s embarrassing, honestly.

 

“Excuse me,” he says dryly, “But some of us professionals are trying to practice here.”

 

“You’ve never been professional a day in your life,” she says, dropping the cord and tapping her foot impatiently. “Stop being a prick, John.”

 

“Just as soon as your boyfriend learns how to play without sounding like he’s banging on his mummy’s cooking pots,” he grumbles, raising his brows when River crosses her arms. “You know I’m right.”

 

She sighs, striding toward her microphone at the front of the stage. “From the top, everyone. And Ramone, perhaps not so heavy-handed this time.”

 

John smirks.

 

“But River -”

 

“Our first show is tonight and we’re never going to get through this rehearsal if you two don’t stop pulling your pricks out of your trousers to compare sizes so please, Ramone, just do as I say and shut up.”

 

Before John has time to feel too smug, River softens the reprimand by blowing Ramone a kiss. Only when he gives her a reluctant smile and a nod does she turn back to the microphone and signal for them to start again.

 

This time, they don’t sound half bad if he ignores the fact that Ramone is the one on drums. The rest of them have slipped into the song like an old pair of worn shoes, comfortable and just right – as though they’d never left the stage behind. John loses himself in the opening chords, fingers moving reverently along the strings of his guitar. He hasn’t been onstage in such a long time and he’d expected to feel strange and out of sorts at the first rehearsal but it’s just as River had said.

 

A homecoming.

 

For one brief moment before River starts singing, he actually believes it might all work out. He might make it through this with his sanity intact, grateful for the chance to play again. And then she opens her mouth and he wants to laugh because how the hell had he forgotten? It had never even mattered if they’d been in the middle of a massive row only a few minutes prior to walking onstage – when River sang, he always fell in love with her all over again. He’s at once relieved and horrified to discover time hasn’t changed that at all.

 

_“He says oh baby girl, you know we’re gonna be legends…”_

 

She already looks so much like the woman he remembers, full mouth flirting with the microphone and kohl-lined eyes bright and sultry, but hearing her sing makes it all so much worse. River sings like she lives, with both abandon and elegance. She sings in a way that makes grown men want to drop to their knees and weep, grateful just to be alive and listening to her. She’s like a bloody siren weaving a spell, drawing everyone into her gyre.

 

With every line she sings, it gets harder and harder to differentiate between the past and the present. The only thing keeping him planted firmly in the present is glancing at Ramone out of the corner of his eye, watching him gaze at River like she’s some sort of rock goddess. She certainly looks the part – wild hair, red lips, sighing into the microphone. She drops to her knees, crooning, and his heart leaps into his throat.

 

She turns and looks at him like she always used to do, as though no time has passed at all – as though they’d only been onstage together yesterday instead of twenty years ago. _“If you wanna go to heaven you should fuck me tonight.”_

 

Curls brushing her shoulders and eyes on his, she winks at him and John grits his teeth, reminding himself the reappearance of a damned jacket means nothing. Their audience will expect their usual flirtation and she’s just practicing giving it to them. She turns away again, her hips swaying as she croons into the microphone, and he’s so busy staring that he nearly misses a chord.

 

_“You know the two of us are just young gods…”_

 

He’s fucked.

 

-

 

They manage to make it through rehearsals in one piece somehow and their first show on the tour is a smashing success, judging by the deafening applause as the lights go down on their last song of the night. Clara ushers them all backstage and into their dressing rooms to change, harping on about her schedule all the while.

 

Tucking his guitar carefully into its case, John looks up and watches River and Ramone disappear into the same dressing room together, hands linked and mouths smiling. Knowing what River’s like after a show – her high energy and buoyant spirits, her insatiability, he knows it’ll be a while before they venture outside again. He clenches his jaw and looks away, snapping his guitar case shut.

 

Clara stares after him as he stalks off. “Where are you going? The cars are waiting around back -”

 

“I’m walking,” he barks over his shoulder. “Believe me, I’ll beat you there.”

 

He slips out a side door and manages to avoid the majority of the fans waiting around for an autograph or a picture and those who do see him take one look at his face and wisely don’t approach him. Adrenaline still hums under his skin so he takes the long way back to the hotel, stalking the streets with a cigarette in his mouth and memories haunting his footsteps.

 

It had felt good to play for a crowd again and any other time he’d be on top of the world about it but there’s no ignoring the heavy weight in his stomach or the way his teeth keep grinding together when he isn’t paying attention. He’d thought the torture wouldn’t begin until after the tour ended and he went back to not seeing River every day but he’d been wrong.

 

The torture is watching River with someone else. The torture is hearing her sing songs he wrote for her when they were happy and in love. The torture is reliving some memory he’d thought long forgotten with every fucking chord he plays. The torture had begun the moment she walked back into his life, seeping into his lungs again like some airborne disease there’s no way in hell he’ll survive for the second time.

 

When the hotel finally comes into view ahead of him, John squares his shoulders and puts out his cigarette. It’s too late to back out now. He’s already signed his life away to this damned tour – and his ex-wife as a result. Might as well see it through.

 

He stalks through the lobby with the intent of getting to the elevators without being spotted by another fan but his tentative plan goes to hell the moment he glances in the direction of the hotel bar and sees River sitting by herself with a glass of wine, leather jacket draped over the back of her chair. Before he can talk himself out of it or even question why his body had halted at the sight of her or why his mind focused every fucking neuron and synapse into redirecting his steps toward her, he’s dropping onto the bar stool beside her and ordering a whiskey.

 

River frowns at him over the rim of her glass and he notices instantly that her eye makeup and her lipstick are smudged. She still carries the faintest trace of leather and sweat and he knows she hasn’t bothered washing up yet either. “Where have you been?”

 

He drums his fingers against the bar and watches the bartender place his drink in front of him. “I walked.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Needed the time to wind down,” he lies.

 

Nodding, River gestures to her drink. “That’s why I’m here.”

 

John guzzles his whiskey, grimaces, and signals for another. “I thought you had other methods of…relaxing.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not supposed to gulp those you know.”

 

“Yes, I know what an uncultured bastard I am. Answer the damn question.”

 

Watching the bartender leave the bottle in front of him, River purses her lips and shakes her head. He expects a lecture on growing the hell up and not being such a goddamn drunk but she surprises him. “Your…assistant is a cockblock. It’s rather difficult to stay in the mood with her outside the dressing room door shouting about timetables.”

 

John snorts, making a mental note to send Clara a gift basket later. “As I recall, you were always in the mood.”

 

“I wasn’t the one having trouble.”

 

“Ah.” He smirks. “And where is Raymond now?”

 

“Ramone.” She sighs. “And he’s in our room.” If she notices John’s flinch at _our_ she doesn’t point it out. “He said he was too tired for a drink.”

 

“That’s rubbish.”

 

“That’s what I said,” she mutters, and they share a rare, conspiratorial smile.

 

They nurse their drinks in silence for a few minutes and for the first time since they came together again, John doesn’t try to antagonize her. Maybe it’s because he’d spent the better part of an hour walking around the city thinking she was shagging his replacement in a dressing room like they used to do. Maybe because he’d heard her sing for hours today and sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could almost believe nothing had changed – that he could reach out and touch her and she would welcome it.

 

Whatever the reason, he’s feeling magnanimous.

 

“So,” River says, offering him a sly glance. “Are you ever going to tell me why you agreed to this tour?”

 

He shrugs.

 

“And so easily, John. I thought I would have to spend months talking you into it.”

 

He watches her sip her wine and tuck her wild curls behind her ears, a smile curving her mouth, and suddenly it aches as much as it did the day she walked out. He licks his lips and says into his drink, “When was the last time you told me you wanted something and I didn’t give it to you?”

 

Her eyes widen – she obviously hadn’t been expecting an honest answer out of him – and she swallows, looking away. “John -”

 

“You said he was twenty-eight.”

 

She frowns. “What about it?”

 

“That’s how old I was,” he answers, and takes a drink. “When I met you.”

 

River sighs and gives a watery laugh, avoiding his gaze. “You’re still a nostalgic idiot.”

 

He nods once, eyes intent on her face, and wonders if he’s the only one who feels like they’re on the edge of something here. “Not with everyone. Just -”

 

“You!”

 

He turns, startled, just in time to be met with Clara’s pointer finger poking him savagely in the chest. “Oi!”

 

She glowers. “I’ve been calling your mobile for the past forty-five minutes trying to make sure you were alright.”

 

“Of course I’m alright,” he snaps, glancing at River. She isn’t looking at him anymore, sipping the last dregs of her wine like an attentive lover. “What the bloody hell could possibly have happened to me?”

 

“I don’t know – you could have been mobbed by fans or maybe your nicotine-weakened lungs could have collapsed from the sudden exercise! How was I supposed to know?” She pokes him again, scowling when John swats her away. “Answer your bloody phone.”

 

“Fine, got it,” he snaps. “Now bugger off.”

 

She sits, of course, because her mission in life seems to be to make John’s more difficult. She stares between John and River for a moment, frowning. “You’re having drinks. Together.” She leans closer, inspecting John’s shirt. “And River hasn’t thrown hers on you yet.”

 

“I don’t waste alcohol,” River mutters, and when Clara glances at her with a grin, John watches her force a polite smile. He knows her too well to fall for it. He always knows when River is faking it. Not that she ever had to with him. He’s got a setlist of radio-banned songs to prove it.

 

“Well alright then. Far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth.” Clara stands again, much to John’s relief. “Don’t stay up too late, yeah? Early day tomorrow.”

 

“Yes, boss.” He gives her a half-hearted salute and Clara returns it with such good-natured cheer he has to fight the urge to stick out his tongue.

 

“Night then.” She winks. “Oh, and River? Ramone was looking for you. He asked me to tell you he’s waiting up.”

 

“Thank you,” River murmurs, nodding faintly as Clara turns and walks away.

 

John glowers after her. Forget the gift basket. He’s going to make her life a fucking nightmare, the unhelpful wench. “Well I suppose that’s your cue,” he grumbles, turning back to his whiskey. “Don’t you hate it when you tuck them in and they come tottering out asking for a glass of water an hour later?”

 

River sighs, pushing aside her drink and turning to him with a vicious smile. “I doubt it’s water he’s thirsty for.”

 

He looks away before she sees him flinch, knowing it’s his own fault for turning on her. They were actually managing to be civil for once. More than civil. They’d been… well, the moment is gone. Thanks to bloody Clara.

 

He watches with a glare as she stands and throws a few notes onto the bar, enough to pay for her drinks and his own. “It’s on me. Goodnight, John.” Her fingers trail along his shoulder blades, lingering slightly as she moves away.

 

“River?”

 

She turns.

 

“You needn’t dislike Clara.” He smirks when she furrows her brow, her blank stare giving nothing away. “I don’t like them as young as you do, dear.”

 

She stiffens, eyes flickering. John watches her fingers curl into her palms and her throat flex as she swallows. “I like her just fine, actually.” Tipping up her chin, she says, “As if that girl would have you anyway.”

 

“Touché,” he mutters, and turns to stare into his glass as she stalks off. He listens to the sound of her footsteps fading away, carrying her toward the elevators and her waiting boyfriend.

 

He knows from Clara’s disturbingly detailed itinerary that his room is right beside River’s so he has no desire to make his way upstairs just yet. Eyes heavy with exhaustion and his temples aching, John lingers at the bar and nurses his whiskey until he’s certain River and Ramone are asleep.

 

-

 

He doesn’t notice the reappearance of the book until Stockholm and he blames his negligence on too much music and too little sleep. Otherwise he never would have missed it. There’s no telling exactly when River started using it again. One morning he simply looks up, half-asleep and slouched in his seat on the plane, and there it is.

 

Faded blue cover and worn pages, open and balanced on River’s knees. He has to blink a few times to make sure he isn’t seeing things but it’s really there and River is really scribbling in the margins of one page. In soft leggings and a Darillium t-shirt, her motorcycle boots propped up on the seat across from her, she munches on an apple with one hand and writes in the notebook with the other. Her wild hair has been piled on top of her head and every now and then she huffs at a stray curl to get it out of her eyes.

 

For a moment, John feels twenty years younger, certain that River will look up any second and wink at him. _Finally up, are you?_ She used to ask. _Some of us have been getting some work done, you lazy arse._ She never showed him her songs until they were finished, snatching the book from him and whacking him with it when he tried to take a peek.

 

 _Maybe I could help_ , he used to say, struggling to peer over her shoulder.

 

River always elbowed him and snapped her book shut, glancing at him slyly through her lashes. _You’ve already helped, idiot. Who do you think I’m writing about?_ And then she’d kiss the smug grin on his face until the last thing on his mind was sneaking a peek at anything but her.

 

Shaking himself from warm, happy memories John straightens from his slouch and bends over with his elbows on his knees, rubbing tiredly at his eyes until the old days are back where they belong – in the past. When he looks up again, the notebook is the first thing he sees, the flash of blue drawing his gaze easily.

 

He hasn’t seen that book since they were married and he can’t help but wonder at the reason for its reappearance. He spends about ten seconds believing Clara and Vastra had actually been right and this tour is making River nostalgic. Maybe spending all of this time together is making her miss the old days. Miss _him_.

 

Ten seconds of glorious, heart-lifting hope – and then Ramone drops an arm around her shoulders and leans in, peering at the pages. From his seat, John can hear him murmur, “What are you working on, babe?”

 

He waits, not even breathing, until River pushes Ramone away and shakes her head. “It’s not finished,” she answers, shielding the page from his eyes. “It needs a few more verses.”

 

“Do you want any help?”

 

His knuckles ache and he knows he’s gripping his armrest too tightly but he can’t relax until River laughs softly and says, “No offense dear but you’re a drummer, not a writer.”

 

Ramone kisses her neck. “Still fit enough to inspire a song or two though, yeah?”

 

Pursing her lips, River nudges him fondly away and says, “We’ll see.”

 

As she goes back to writing in her book – the book where she’d written the song she sang at their wedding, the book where she spilled all the love and heartache and secrets of their marriage – John stares at her with a lump in his throat and a knot the size of a sodding rock in his chest. That little blue book – _their_ little blue book – used to be so sacred. And now she’s using it to scribble out a few notes about her fuck toy?

 

It shouldn’t come as such a shock. River had always taken her inspiration from her relationships, just as John does. For a long time, that meant their songs were about each other. Hell, his songs are still about her. It isn’t so much that she’s moved on to other means of inspiration that’s bothering him. John has had a front row seat to River’s means of moving on for weeks now. But did she have to use the same bloody book?

 

He knows River is shameless but he had never thought her quite so heartless.

 

John grits his teeth and turns to stare out the plane window but no matter where he looks, all he can think about is that blue book. Songs about River falling in love with him, songs about their marriage and their destructive breakup all mingled together with new songs about Ramone and their time in the sheets together. It’s enough to make him sick.

 

It’s enough to make him cruel.

 

“I’ve added a new song to the setlist,” he says, turning to look at River. He hasn’t actually added a damn thing but he will the moment they land. “Well, not new but we haven’t used it yet on the tour.”

 

“Oh?” River asks, absent-minded as she taps her pen against the page. “What song is that?”

 

Watching her face carefully, John answers, “Apocalyptic.”

 

The reaction is instant, though only to John – he knows her face by heart, knows every expression and minutiae, could recreate her in words and melody by memory alone. Her eyes flicker and then go blank, her mouth tightens and her fingers clench around her pen. For the briefest moment before she buries it, the pain and betrayal that flashes across her face makes him want to take it back.

 

And then she looks up, her expression placid, carefully giving nothing away. “Why would you want me to sing that song?” She asks quietly, and he gives her credit for managing to sound only curious instead of enraged. “It’s…”

 

It’s one River had written when they were teetering on the brink of divorce and unwilling to admit it, with angry, vulgar lyrics that will only bring back terrible memories for both of them. He doesn’t want to hear her sing it, doesn’t want to play guitar on it, but if River can write new songs for another man in their book than she can damn well perform an old one that’ll hurt like hell.

 

“It’s just a song, River. Written a long time ago.” He shrugs, meeting her gaze steadily. “It means nothing now.”

 

Her flinch is barely perceptible to anyone but him and she doesn’t look away, his brave girl. Her eyes search his face for a long moment and John simply stares at her, daring her to deny him this when that book is open on her lap. Finally, she nods and when she agrees through gritted teeth, it sounds like a challenge. “Fine. I’ll sing it.”

 

“Good.” He gives her a blithe smile, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Then I’ll play it.”

 

She glares, turning away from him and back to her book. She doesn’t look at him again for the duration of the flight, grabbing her bag when they land and ducking into a car with Ramone without a backward glance.

 

John stands on the curb at the airport with the rest of the band and watches her car pull away. She always did manage to make his victories taste like defeat.


	4. let's get together and use those lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been somewhat of a relief to see her slowly shedding her Stepford River clothes and donning things in her old style. If she would just put flowers in her hair again he could pretend she’d never tried to be someone else when she left. Like she couldn’t bear keeping even one detail of her life with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Time's A-Wastin' by Johnny Cash and June Carter. Songs mentioned in this chapter include Apocalyptic by Halestorm, I Belong To You by Brandi Carlile, and Some Streets Lead Nowhere by Matthew Ryan.

_“I wear my nine inch heels when we go to bed. I paint the color of my lips blood red -”_

 

If he focuses on the words, he won’t be able to get through the song without being assaulted with memories – River in his bed and under his hands, River not speaking to him for days, the tense silences that drove him mad and made him lash out because _what did she fucking want from him_ , River kissing him to shut him up and all of it starting all over again. The last days of their marriage were punctuated by long stretches of silence, explosive arguments, and rough, desperate sex.

 

_“Always waging wars me and you, sad but true. We’re not us anymore but there’s still one thing we’re good for…”_

 

He’d been trying to get back at River when he’d put this song on the setlist but like a complete idiot, he hadn’t counted on just how it would affect him to hear it again. He plays as mindlessly as he can, his hands moving over his guitar on autopilot as he keeps his attention focused elsewhere. Like on Ramone, who can’t quite hide his squirming as River sings.

 

_“I’m leaving scratches up and down your back-”_

 

Fingers sliding over frets absently, John watches with barely disguised glee as Ramone visibly flinches and grits his teeth. Ah, not a fan of the explicit reminiscing, then.

 

_“Throw me against the wall, bite me on my neck – like end of the world break-up sex.”_

 

Every verse makes him more tense and John watches as his frustration builds, smirking when he can hear it start to affect the boy’s playing. He’s very nearly smashing the drums and as River sings, burning with just as much anger and heartache and desire she held the first time she ever performed it, Ramone looks across the stage at John with accusation in his eyes.

 

John outright grins at him.

 

 _“Cause no one does it better, no one knows me better_ -” She stops abruptly, whirling to glare at Ramone as the cymbals clash off-beat. Deprived of the lead singer’s voice, everyone else stops playing. Even the people in the sound booth cut the music, waiting for River’s next cue. “Ramone, what the hell has gotten into you? That was total rubbish!”

 

“Sorry,” he mutters. He tears his gaze away from John and stands. “I need a minute.”

 

As he strides from the stage, Vastra and Jenny exchange a knowing look.

 

River huffs, turning to look at them. “What on earth was that about?”

 

John shrugs, meeting her puzzled stare. “So moody at that age, aren’t they?”

 

She tangles a hand in her hair and strides off after Ramone with a muttered, “Fuck off, John.”

 

He waits all of two minutes before he sets aside his guitar. Vastra watches him move across the stage, elbows on the keys of her piano and eyes silently judging. “Are you really going to stoop so low as to spy on your ex and her boyfriend?”

 

“Who said anything about stooping?” He asks, holding up his hands and arching a brow at her. “Maybe I’ll hover.”

 

Jenny smothers a grin in her hand and feeling rather encouraged by her amusement, he winks and slips backstage, following the sound of Ramone’s whining voice down a corridor. Coming to a stop outside an ajar door, he fishes inside the pocket of his hoodie for his cigarettes. On the off chance River storms out unexpectedly, at least he’ll have the excuse of looking for an exit. Not that River will buy it but he’d still like to have one.

 

“It’s just a bloody song! What are you getting so upset over?”

 

“It’s not just a song, River. It’s a song you wrote about him -”

 

“Oh for god’s sake, Ramone. I don’t have time for this jealous, he-man bullshit. Nearly every song I ever wrote was about John somehow. He was my husband and we worked together -”

 

“I know that but this is different. This is – it’s smut, River! And you wrote it from experience. It – it doesn’t sound anything like you. It’s not jealousy, alright? I’m upset because you sound like a completely different person in these songs. What the hell did he do to you?”

 

John pauses, cigarette halfway to his mouth, and listens to River’s reply with his heart in his throat. “Don’t you bloody dare feel sorry for me.” At the enraged wobble in her voice, he ventures closer to the door. “Whatever you might like to believe, we were happy once and I certainly don’t need your pity just because things ended badly.”

 

“I was listening to some of your early stuff last night after you fell asleep.” John swallows, peering through the crack in the door. Ramone sits on a crate of supplies, head in his hands. River stands a safe distance away, arms crossed over her chest and jaw set stubbornly, watching Ramone with a wariness that almost makes John smile. “I know you were happy, River. I could hear it in your voice in those songs.”

 

River sighs, looking away. “Is there a point to this?”

 

“My point is that there’s a huge difference between the music when you and John were happy and when you weren’t and I just don’t understand. You never talk about what happened between you -”

 

“That’s because it’s none of your damn business,” River interrupts, her voice cold and sharp enough to make Ramone recoil. “This isn’t therapy hour, Ramone. We’ve got rehearsals -”

 

“Did he ever hurt you?”

 

John watches through the crack in the door as River laughs, staring at Ramone like he’s grown a third head. Something in his chest comes unknotted at her incredulity and he breathes out through his nose, steadying himself against the doorframe. “John may be a grumpy bugger at his best and a total bastard at his worst but he’s not abusive. If he ever hurt me it’s because I asked him to.”

 

Ramone lifts his head, gaping at her. “You asked him to?”

 

“I know you’re young but surely you’ve heard of people having rough sex and enjoying it,” River says, her voice low and flirtatious enough to confuse the hell out of John. That voice purring in his ear used to be all he needed to get off and now that it’s being directed at someone else he and his very confused prick aren’t quite sure how to feel.

 

It takes him a moment of talking himself out of arousal or lighting a cigarette before he registers what River had said. He starts paying attention again just in time to hear Ramone grumble in embarrassment, “Of course I’ve heard of it. I just didn’t think you liked that sort of thing.”

 

Jaw dropping, John slaps a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud and giving himself away. River? Not into rough sex? Fucking hell, what kind of vanilla love life is she leading without him? Even when they’d been happy and content together the sex had always been wild.

 

Too busy pondering what the hell it means and feeling just a bit smug that sex with her much younger boyfriend doesn’t seem to be nearly as exciting as it had been with him, John completely misses whatever River had said in response. He tucks his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and forces himself to listen again.

 

“I can’t go back out there – he’s bloody enjoying this!”

 

“Of course he is,” River says, sounding nearly at the end of her patience. “John enjoys being an arse. You’re giving him what he wants by taking it so badly. Now let’s go before the impossible idiot comes looking for us-”

 

“He’s still in love with you.”

 

John stops breathing.

 

River laughs again, shaking her head. Only he sees the way her hand shakes as she pushes her hair back. “John never loved me, Ramone.”

 

He frowns. “You were married.”

 

“And look how it turned out.” She crosses the room to him and takes his hand, tugging him up. “Now come on, back to rehearsals.”

 

As Ramone leans in to kiss her, John turns and stumbles back down the corridor with an odd ringing in his ears he can’t seem to shake. _John never loved me_. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? He’d have understood if she’d said _John doesn’t love me anymore_ though even that would have been untrue and he’d have accused of her blind stupidity but _never_? Has she lost her fucking mind?

 

Vastra and Jenny are waiting for him when he returns to the stage, Jenny perched on Vastra’s piano as she leans in to kiss her. They part with soppy smiles and turn to watch John stomp back to his place, snatching up his guitar. “Alright over there?” Jenny calls.

 

He harrumphs. “Our mad as a fucking cat leader and her plaything will be back in a moment – once they’ve finished sucking face, I imagine.”

 

Vastra sighs, watching Jenny hop off the piano and pick up her violin. “I told you going after them was a mistake.”

 

“No one likes a sodding know it all,” he mutters.

 

Vastra flicks her green hair at him.

 

By the time he’s settled his guitar strap around his neck again and perched on his amp in an effort to look like he’s been waiting the whole time instead of shamelessly eavesdropping, River and Ramone walk back onstage.

 

“Everything all right?” John asks innocently, making Vastra roll her eyes.

 

“Fine,” River says, refusing to look at him. She lets go of Ramone’s hand and strides toward her microphone at the front of the stage. “We’ll leave the last song where it is – I think we’ve got it. We’ve got one more and we’ll call it a day, alright?”

 

He frowns, looking up from tuning his guitar. “I thought Apocalyptic was the last song?”

 

“No, I added a new one.” River picks up the setlist from the stool beside her and hands it to him without so much as a glance. “Have a look.”

 

He scans the list quickly, his eyes drifting to the last song of the set. When he sees it, his breath catches and his head snaps up. River is watching him now, her eyes cold. “I wrote this for you when we were first married.”

 

“I remember,” she says, and there isn’t a trace of emotion in her voice. He supposes he deserves that. “I assumed you wouldn’t mind. The old songs mean nothing now, after all.”

 

John shakes his head, clearing his throat as he hands the setlist back to her numbly. “Nothing,” he agrees. “Let’s just get it over with, shall we?”

 

“Good,” she says, sounding almost vindictive in her satisfaction.

 

How very her, striking just where it hurts most. She’s never been more his River, never further from that professional PR facade she puts on for everyone else. John would have been proud if his chest didn’t ache so much. So he watches her sing and plays alongside her and when the words make him think of happier times, he closes his eyes and pretends.

 

_“I know I could be spending a little too much time with you but time and too much don’t belong together like we do. If I had all my yesterdays I’d give ‘em to you too. I belong to you now, I belong to you…”_

 

-

 

Going straight to bed after a successful show is impossible, whatever Clara might say about “needing their rest” and they all find themselves drinking at the hotel bar two hours after John’s assistant had ordered them to sleep. It’s River’s idea to sneak out – of course – and the rest of them follow her lead willingly.

 

They creep away from Clara’s watchful eye to find a bit of fun and that’s how John finds himself in a dive bar in Sydney at two in the morning, listening to a live band perform shitty cover after shitty cover. They’ve commandeered a table at the back of the little hellhole and so far only a few people have wandered up asking for autographs. For the most part, they’re left alone to get drunk and dance and in River’s case, shout out requests to the band.

 

“Remember the time she heckled the lead singer at that club in Berlin?” Vastra wraps an arm around Jenny’s shoulders and the girl curls into her side with an eager nod.

 

“He left crying and River jumped on stage and took over for him.” Jenny laughs, clinking glasses with River, who looks flushed from drink and perhaps a bit of shame. “And she took his bleedin’ tip jar when she left.”

 

The table erupts into laughter – except Ramone, who looks rather scandalized – as River buries her face in her hands and insists, “I was drunk, you miserable lot.”

 

“Not hardly, dear,” John says, still smirking as he pushes another shot toward her. “I remember better than you think.”

 

River picks up her shot with a glare and knocks it back. “Drunk on the music,” she amends after she wipes her mouth. Her lips curl up into a smile when he snorts. “Besides, I seem to remember you got into plenty of trouble yourself.”

 

“And who was always with me?” He raises his brows at her, daring her to protest. “Name one time I was on my own.”

 

“The time you nicked Keith Richard’s guitar pick -”

 

“On a dare from you, if I recall.”

 

“When we were arrested in Belfast because you were speeding.”

 

“On the motorbike you’d stolen!”

 

“Fine, what about the time we were kicked out of David Bowie’s birthday bash because you’d fallen out of a window and crushed his wife’s roses?”

 

John laughs incredulously. “You pushed me!”

 

“You were being an unbearable git.”

 

“River,” he says slowly, smirking as he fishes in his coat pocket for a cigarette. “You pushed me out a window.”

 

She tosses her hair, unrepentant. “Don’t be such a baby. It was only the second floor and the roses broke your fall, didn’t they?”

 

“Along with a few thorns.” He snorts. “Don’t pretend you knew the bush was there.”

 

She scoffs. “Of course I did, idiot. I was angry, not homicidal.”

 

“Good to know,” he mutters, snatching the lighter when Vastra offers it to him. “I’d always wondered.”

 

River eyes him fondly from across the table. “Oh, shut up.”

 

The brief moment of peace between them is broken as the band onstage begins another cover, one John recognizes instantly. When he hears the opening, melancholic chords, he freezes, cigarette dangling between his lips. It was the first song he’d written after River left him. It was also the first song he’d sold to someone else when he’d realized he couldn’t bear the thought of actually singing it. It’s the song that began his career as a lyricist.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Vastra pulling Jenny from their table and onto the floor. Ramone leans into River’s side and takes her hand. Over the music, John can’t hear what he says but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the lad wants to dance.

 

_“To the rain that kept falling and those years off the rails, when we smiled like two sailors with holes in our sails…”_

 

River hesitates, pulling her hand from his and glancing uncertainly at John. He gazes back at her, puzzled, and wonders if she knows. How could she possibly know? “I don’t think -”

 

“Go on then,” he says. The last thing he wants is to see River dancing with someone else – and to that song of all songs – but he’ll be damned if he lets her think it would bother him. It’s bad enough she apparently knows he’d written it for her in a fit of despair when she left. “Poor tyke’s probably feeling left out, what with all this reminiscing.”

 

It can’t be easy, being the new one in a group with such history. He might have felt sorry for him if Ramone didn’t have everything John wanted. River sets her jaw, all sympathy vanishing from her eyes as she looks away. “Come on,” she says, taking Ramone’s hand. “Dance with me.”

 

John watches them go and the minute Ramone pulls River into him on the dance floor, he sweeps out his arm and gathers the remaining drinks on the table toward him. Waste not and all that.

 

River’s glass still has her lipstick imprint on it. John drinks from it first, downing her Guinness in two gulps before moving on to her remaining shot glasses. When he looks up again, it takes him a moment to find River – there, in the middle of the crowd, wearing her leather jacket again. It’s still bittersweet seeing her in it. And he still has trouble not staring.

 

It’s been somewhat of a relief to see her slowly shedding her Stepford River clothes and donning things in her old style. If she would just put flowers in her hair again he could pretend she’d never tried to be someone else when she left. Like she couldn’t bear keeping even one detail of her life with him.

 

_“I was afraid that you’d leave, so I slept with my failures and I started to grieve…”_

He moves on to Vastra’s straight vodka, faintly aware that mixing his liquor is a stupid idea but already belligerently drunk enough not to care. The next time he looks at the dance floor, River still has her head on Ramone’s shoulder and his hand has slipped beneath her top to touch her bare skin but they’re a wee bit blurry now so he doesn’t mind as much.

 

As Ramone’s fingers stroke over her rib cage beneath her shirt, he wonders idly if that tattoo is still there, the one she’d gotten after they were married – _Always & Completely_ – or if she’d gotten it removed. He can’t imagine she’d kept it and if she had she’d probably had it turned into something stupid like a fucking heart with Ramone’s name in it but he still finds himself squinting in the dim light of the bar in hopes he’ll catch a glimpse of inked skin. Maybe when she comes back he’ll ask her to dance and look for it up close.

 

He turns away when Ramone leans in to kiss her, letting his eyes drift over the crowd. It’s then that he spots the girl on the edge of the dance floor holding up her mobile. For a moment, he thinks she’s just some bird taking a selfie before he realizes the phone in her hand follows the movements of one couple on the floor.

 

He stands quickly – too quickly. Swaying in place, John grabs the edge of the table and waits for the room to stop spinning. Christ, he hadn’t realized quite how drunk he was until now. He grits his teeth and refuses to throw up out of sheer stubbornness, straightening and letting go of the table. It only takes a few stumbling steps to reach the girl with the mobile and even drunk, he has the element of surprise.

 

“What’s this then?” Nicking the phone from her, he stops the recording and restarts it. The girl stares at him, too shocked by his presence to protest just yet. The video begins to replay, showing him a slightly grainy River and Ramone dancing together on the tiny screen.

 

He tuts and shakes his head. “Doesn’t privacy mean anything to you fucking vipers?”

 

“I - sorry.”

 

“For getting caught, I imagine,” he mutters, and deletes the video. “Fuck off.”

 

“John? What’s going on?”

 

He turns and finds River striding up to him with a frown, Ramone abandoned on the dance floor behind her. “Nothing. She was videoing you – probably so she could sell it to some shithole like TMZ.”

 

Her eyes narrow dangerously and John smirks when the girl takes a wary step back. “Is that so?”

 

“I deleted it,” he says, letting her take the phone from him.

 

“Don’t care,” she says, and promptly lets it drop to the floor, shattering the screen on impact. Her boot heel takes care of the rest.

 

John winces to cover his utter glee – there she is, his bad girl back in action again. Honestly, tonight is turning out much better than he’d ever have imagined.

 

The busybody owner of the mobile gapes at the remains of it scattered across the dance floor. “Oi! That phone was two hundred dollars, you bitch!”

 

She launches herself at River and John doesn’t realize he’d stepped between them until she lands a punch against the side of his mouth. It’s a weak effort compared to the slaps from River he’s used to but her ring catches his lip and he swears profusely, stumbling away from River’s would-be assailant wiping blood from his mouth.

 

“I take it back,” he grumbles, wiping his bloody hand on his trousers. “ _Not_ better than I imagined.”

 

The commotion around him makes him glance up and his eyes widen when he finds River barely being restrained by Vastra and Ramone, practically growling at the girl who’d hit him. He’s far too unsteady and downright fucking sloshed to help them contain her even if he wanted to – which he doesn’t because he hasn’t seen her so feral in decades – so he steadies himself against a nearby table and watches her struggle to get free.

 

“Let me go! I swear to god, I’ll take that gaudy ring and shove it down her goddamn throat-”

 

Vastra cringes. “Exactly why we’re restraining you, dear. Accosting someone in a dive bar might be considered bad press, you know.” She looks helplessly toward John, clearly looking for some sort of assistance. “John?”

 

“Yes, Vastra?”

 

“A little help wouldn’t be amiss.”

 

“But look at her,” he nearly whinges, gesturing sloppily to his snarling ex. “She’s _magnificent_.”

 

Vastra narrows her eyes at him. “Do you really want to deal with Clara if this gets out?”

 

John sighs, pouting a bit. “River,” he barks, waiting for her to turn her head and glare at him. “Down, girl.”

 

She stops struggling but no one lets her go. “She took a swing at you! You’re bleeding, for god’s sake.”

 

“Well, it wasn’t a push out a second story window but I think I’ll survive,” he says dryly.

 

River frowns, violently elbowing Vastra and Ramone away from her. “Get _off_ , both of you.” They hover for a moment, uncertain if she’ll relaunch an attack, but her glower keeps them from touching her again. “Fine,” she snaps, and adjusts the collar of her leather jacket. “You’re hardly worth defending anyway.”

 

“Here, here,” Vastra mutters, looking only half kidding.

 

John salutes her sloppily and wipes more blood from his chin.

 

River’s eyes follow the movement and her frown only grows as she turns to look at their friends. “You all stay here and have a drink for me,” she says. “I’m taking John back to the hotel.”

 

He blinks at her. “Are we finally having a reunion shag?”

 

“Your cut needs cleaned, idiot,” she says, already ushering him toward the door. “Who knows where that cheap ring has been.”

 

“Hang on, I’ll come with you.” Ramone latches onto her arm, his eyes wide and a little horrified. John realizes with delight that perhaps the lad has just gotten his first glimpse of the real River Song. The real River doesn’t belong in pantsuits and boardroom meetings. She belongs on stages and in pub brawls, she belongs right beside him.

 

Ever conscious of River’s small hand curled around his elbow, John interrupts rudely, “Three is a crowd, Raymond, haven’t you ever heard?”

 

“Shut up, you drunken arse,” River snaps, and turns to look at Ramone. “It’s still early yet. Besides, Vastra and Jenny aren’t ready to go. You should stay – get to know them a bit better. I’ll be fine.”

 

Ramone eyes her reluctantly. “If you’re sure…”

 

Swaying toward River and feeling rather pleased with himself, John mutters, “She’s sure, Raymond.”

 

River rolls her eyes and nods, giving Ramone’s arm a gentle squeeze. “See you later.” She grips John by the elbow and starts steering him toward the exit. “Come on then, old man. Let’s get you into a cab.”

 

She bundles him into a car and gives the driver directions to the hotel. John spends the majority of the ride slouching against the window and trying not to throw up. River keeps her hand in his and he focuses on that instead, barely even grumbling at her when she forces him to hold a tissue to his bleeding mouth.

 

They make it to the hotel and upstairs without incident, John leaning against the wall outside his room while River practically frisks him looking for his key. “Just like old times,” he leers.

 

“What? A drunk, Scottish man getting in my way during a pub brawl? Yes it is.” She pulls the key from the inner pocket of his coat and shoves it into the lock, ignoring his pout. Pushing open the door, she ushers him inside and toward the bed. “Sit.”

 

He practically collapses onto the edge of his mattress, his knees giving out from under him without her guidance. Watching blearily as she sheds her jacket and moves across the room toward the mini bar, he frowns. “Is it really the time to get drunk? Er. Drunker.”

 

River pulls out a bottle of vodka and mutters absently, “It’s not to drink, honey.” She disappears into the bathroom and comes back out with a flannel, settling onto the edge of the bed next to him. He watches tiredly as she douses the flannel in vodka and brings it to the cut on his lip.

 

He hisses, recoiling from her.

 

River cups the back of his head to keep him still and shushes him, cleaning the cut carefully. “Sorry,” she murmurs, and the moment he realizes just how close she is to him the sting of the alcohol fades like it never existed at all.

 

“S’alright,” he answers, eyes utterly focused on her face hovering over his. “Nothing compared to falling out a window.”

 

River sighs, her hand gentle on his jaw. Her breath ghosts across his cheek and her hair tickles his nose and John wishes he’d thought of getting hit a long time ago. Twenty years ago, to be exact. “That was an accident and you know it.”

 

He nods, grimacing as the vodka-soaked flannel prods at his cut one last time. “Not nearly as entertaining as the way I tell it.”

 

“I felt terrible,” she says, putting aside the flannel and inspecting his face. “You had bruises everywhere.”

 

John watches her carefully. This is the closest they’ve been in years, if he doesn’t count that photoshoot at the start of the tour. Which he doesn’t because that hadn’t been about choice. Here in this dark hotel room with River’s thigh pressing against his and her breath on his cheek, her green eyes peering into his, it’s all about choice. “You kissed me better.”

 

River swallows, licking her lips. “I did.”

 

“Couldn’t hurt to try that again.” He clears his throat. “I did take a punch for you, after all.”

 

“I don’t remember asking you to,” she says softly, but she’s smiling and John can barely breathe at all as she leans in and presses her warm lips against the cut at the corner of his mouth. His eyes water and he shuts them, turning his head in hopes of capturing her mouth in a real kiss for the first time in years. His lips barely brush hers before River pulls away with a sharp breath, eyes closed and hand on his chest as she whispers, “Don’t, John.”

 

“Apologies,” he mumbles hoarsely, and hopes he won’t remember this particular humiliation in the morning.

 

River shakes her head. “Come on, let’s get you tucked in.”

 

“M’not a child,” he grumbles, but she helps him take off his boots and pulls back the blankets on his bed anyway. He crawls between the sheets still fully dressed and lays his head on his pillow with a groan. “Fuck, I’m drunk.”

 

She laughs softly, stroking his cheek. “You certainly are. Get some rest, sweetie.”

 

He grimaces at the old endearment, catching her hand when she starts to pull away. “River, that song at the bar tonight…”

 

Her smile turns a tad watery and John gazes at her, mesmerized. “One of yours, I know. It’s beautiful.”

 

 _You’re beautiful_ , he wants to say but even drunk he has a better hold on his tongue than that. “It’s about you.”

 

Or perhaps not.

 

River sighs, her gaze as soft as her touch as she lays a hand against his cheek once more. “I know that too,” she whispers.

 

“How?”

 

“I always know.”

 

He swallows thickly. “I waited for you to come back.”

 

She shakes her head. “I was waiting too, John.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For you to come after me.”

 

Eyes watering all over again, John tightens his grip around her fingers and exhales painfully. It actually hurts to sodding breathe. “I didn’t know you wanted me to. I would have run the whole fucking way back to you -”

 

“Shh, hush now.” River strokes her fingers through his hair. “No use getting all worked up. It was a long time ago.”

 

His eyes drift shut and no matter how hard he tries to open them again, River’s touch feels too good against his scalp and he’s much too sloshed to fight off sleep any longer. “Still think about it,” he mutters drowsily. “Every day.”

 

River doesn’t answer him but he feels her lips against his knuckles just before the world falls away and sleep takes him. When he wakes in the morning to Clara banging on his door and shouting at him to get up before they miss their plane, River is long gone and only her forgotten jacket draped at the foot of the bed tells him she was ever really there at all.


	5. close the door lightly when you go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s been avoiding him lately, ever since that night in his hotel room. Except for onstage when they’re all together rehearsing or performing, he never sees her. At first he’d assumed it was simply regret for some of the things she’d said while he was drunk. He hasn’t forgotten a word of it but he’s certainly been pretending he has, hoping River might relax around him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Close The Door Lightly by June Carter. Song mentioned in this chapter is When We Were Young by Adele. 
> 
> Happy Fourth of July weekend to my fellow Americans! Be safe and make good choices!

 

An hour before showtime, John stalks through the halls backstage with a pathetic excuse for a newspaper rag clutched in his fist. He ignores anyone who calls for him, very nearly snarls at those who try to step in his path, and generally presents as menacing an image as possible in hopes no one will stop him.

 

He sets his sights on Ramone and considering the lad usually doesn’t even have the balls to speak directly to him, Ramone looks as though he might wet himself the moment John approaches. “Can – uh – can I help you with something?”

 

“River,” he snaps. “Where is she?”

 

He hesitates, the idiot, like he’s some brave knight guarding the princess inside the towering fortress. John wants to laugh and tell him the princess is a dragon in disguise, far more dangerous than anyone who might mean her harm. After a long and surveying glance, Ramone admits reluctantly, “I think she’s in her dressing room.”

 

Satisfied, John turns on his heel without a word of thanks and goes off in search of his bloody infuriating ex-wife. She’s been avoiding him lately, ever since that night in his hotel room. Except for onstage when they’re all together rehearsing or performing, he never sees her. At first he’d assumed it was simply regret for some of the things she’d said while he was drunk. He hasn’t forgotten a word of it but he’s certainly been pretending he has, hoping River might relax around him again.

 

Still she has kept her distance.

 

Frustrated, he’s continued putting old songs he wrote for her on their setlists, picking the most intimate and potentially embarrassing ones he can remember. River never protests and her only retaliation is to pick the songs she wrote when they were fighting, singing with all the old heartache to go with it. Their shows have become a painful walk down memory lane and now on top of all that, there’s this fucking abomination of an article. He’s done waiting around – he wants her to sodding well look at him again.

 

Without bothering to knock, he charges into her dressing room and slams the door shut behind him. River doesn’t startle easily, only lifts her head from her pillow on the sofa to arch a brow at him. She does her best to give off an air of insouciance but he knows her too well – he sees the strain around her eyes, the tension of her usually lithe, cat-like movements. No matter how nonchalant she may attempt to be, she doesn’t want him in her dressing room.

 

Too bloody bad.

 

John slaps the crumpled paper down on the coffee table beside her damned blue book and quotes tersely, “’Despite our estrangement, John and I have managed to coexist peacefully during the tour and put aside our differences for the sake of the fans. It is my hope that our renewed partnership will lend itself to future projects should we decide to work together again.’”

 

River eyes him calmly, a smirk curling her lips. “Read it a few times, did you?”

 

“Don’t,” he snaps. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Just what it sounds like, I imagine,” she drawls, sitting up and dropping her feet to the floor. “What’s wrong with it? I thought it was very polite.”

 

“That’s exactly what’s wrong with it!” He throws up his hands and begins pacing the length of the room, too agitated to sit still. He throws an accusing glare over his shoulder. “You’re not polite! There isn’t a genuinely polite bone in your entire sodding body.”

 

“I’m always polite to the press, John,” she says, frowning at him. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

 

“Not polite, _charming_ ,” he corrects, waving an irritable hand at her. “There’s a difference. This was just – you sounded like a ruddy politician.” He sneers. “Your alter PR puppet personality coming out to play?”

 

She lifts her chin. “What if it is? We could use some decent PR after that incident with the mobile.”

 

“Your fault,” he mutters sourly. “I had it handled. And I don’t want PR River. I want the real one, with the motorcycle boots and the leather jacket, the one who looks me in the eye and doesn’t sound like she’s reading off a fucking teleprompter.”

 

“You’re absolutely mad, do you know? There’s nothing wrong with what I said, you great loon.” She jumps to her feet, one hand on her cocked hip and green eyes blazing and Christ, if he weren’t so furious he’d want to snog the life out of the impossible woman. “And you don’t get to dictate what I say in interviews. Believe me, I could have said much worse. Why don’t you stop being such a child and start being grateful I was so generous!”

 

“Generous?” John scoffs, kicking a boot against the coffee table and jarring the offending article. “That tripe is _generous_?” He shakes his head, offering her a bitter smile. “No, dear, what’s generous is the interview _I’m_ going to give them. In fact, I think I’ll call them right now and ask for a nice sit down.” He makes a show out of fumbling through his pockets for his mobile. “We were married a long time. I’ve got plenty to talk about.”

 

“Go ahead and try.” River picks up the candle on her coffee table and throws it at him.

 

Without looking up from his mobile, John ducks and listens to it crash against the wall behind him, silently thanking his lucky stars it hadn’t been lit. “Your aim is off. You’re out of practice, dear.” He waggles his brows. “Raymond not nearly as dashingly infuriating?”

 

“Actually,” she says, eyes bright and glowing, alive with her fury. She may be angry but she’s finally looking at him and John silently congratulates himself on a job well done until she continues, “Unlike the last few months of our marriage, I don’t need to be furious to fuck him.”

 

“Pity,” he says, shoving away the twinge he feels at her words. “You were always at your best when you were angry.”

 

River grabs her jacket off the back of the sofa. “Then maybe I’ll go find him now.”

 

“Best of luck.” He swallows back any apologies that might make her stay. “Ask him to try biting. You always liked that, didn’t you?”

 

She stalks past him with a muttered, “I hate you.”

 

“No, you don’t,” he calls after her. The door slams shut behind her and John drops all pretenses, slipping his mobile back into his pocket. He moves numbly toward the sofa and sinks onto it, fingers rubbing at the headache starting to bloom over his eyes.

 

He hadn’t meant to start a fight – at least not one quite so excessive – but River tends to bring out the worst in him these days. She’d made him a better man before, when they were together and happy. He’d been more patient, tender and compassionate, more everything really. She’d made a fucking romantic out of him. But now, separate from her and rather miserable about it, he’s petty and jealous and at times outright vindictive.

 

It’s insane to think of her wanting him back after this tour. He hasn’t exactly been making an effort to win her back, unless ridiculing her boyfriend and calling her a puppet counts. Somehow, he rather doubts it.

 

Straightening, John drops his hand from his eyes and lifts his head. His gaze lands instantly on River’s notebook, lying forgotten on the table beside the crumpled article that had pissed him off in the first place. She must have forgotten it in her eagerness to get away from him.

 

With a wince, John reaches for the little book and holds it in his hands, stroking the cracked leather cover with calloused fingertips. He bought this book for her on their first date, thinking flowers far too cliché for a woman like River Song. She’s kept it, cherished it, ever since – even long after she discarded him. This book holds her heart and her secrets, the very essence of the woman he loves.

 

John thumbs thoughtfully at the brittle pages, licking his lips. Maybe…

 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he tucks the book into his coat and stands, quickly slipping from the room.

 

-

 

He doesn’t sleep that night, hunched over on the edge of his hotel bed with the bedside lamp on, carefully flipping through the faded pages of River’s notebook. He only spends a few minutes reminiscing through the earlier pages, recalling the smear of ink where she’d been in the middle of penning a new song when he’d distracted her with his mouth on her neck or the raspberry jam stain when she’d been writing while they had breakfast in bed on their honeymoon. He skips quickly through a page brittle and crinkled with what he hopes is water and not tears, skimming to the back and River’s more recent work.

 

There’s only one page with new ink and he realizes she’s been working on just one song during the tour, apparently wanting to get it just right. He prepares himself for something obscene about Ramone’s chest hair pattern or other rubbish but as he reads over the verses carefully, a bothersome lump forms in his throat.

 

_It’s hard to admit that_

_Everything just takes me back_

_To when you were there_

John reads the same lines again and again, his heart pounding as he comes to the slow realization that River hadn’t been writing about Ramone at all. She’d been writing about him.

_And a part of me keeps holding on_

_Just in case it hasn’t gone_

_I guess I still care_

_Do you still care?_

 

Weeks of resenting her and Ramone and this damned book and she’d been writing about him all along. John swallows, eyes scanning the rest of the song quickly, devouring it like a child denied sweets for far too long. Then again more slowly, savoring it to make it last just a wee bit longer.

 

_It was just like a movie_

_It was just like a song_

_When we were young_

 

River always wrote so beautifully. Even when he’d hated this book and thought she was using it to write about other lovers, he could never begrudge her finally coming back to the one thing she was always meant for. River was born to write music and sing, destined to make people weep with a mere melody. He’d always said her name had been her destiny.

 

Sighing, John strokes reverent fingertips along the page, tracing over her words. He’s been an absolute prick for weeks and all the while, she’s been writing this. He has to make it up to her. And there’s only one way of communicating that’s never failed him.

 

Cradling the book to his chest, John reaches for his guitar.

 

-

 

He marches into rehearsals the next morning with brand new sheet music. River is already there, lingering near the piano and talking to Vastra, a cup of tea cradled in her hands. She looks up warily when John approaches, as though he might decide to begin the previous day’s argument all over again.

 

“John,” she greets.

 

“I’m an arse,” he says in reply.

 

She sips her coffee. “Yes, I know.”

 

“I don’t mean it.”

 

Her eyes crinkle and flood with warmth, all remaining uncertainty fading from her face as she murmurs, “I know that too.”

 

He nods, relieved. “Good. Here.”

 

She stares at the pages in his hand for a moment like they might bite her, only reaching out to take them when he huffs impatiently. “What’s this?”

 

He drops his arm when their fingers brush, clenching and unclenching his hand at his side. Shrugging, he mutters, “A little something I worked on last night.”

 

River sets her coffee cup on the piano, ignoring Vastra’s grumbling about coasters and stains as she glances over the sheet music. Her eyes widen and he hears her sharp inhale. The papers tremble in her grasp. “This is -”

 

“Yours, yes. I -”

 

Her piercing gaze pins him in place and her voice wavers. “You read my notebook.”

 

Grimacing, John pulls the little book from his coat pocket and hands it back to her. “Yes, that bit was bad. Apologies.” He gestures toward the sheet music excitedly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But I put it to music and it’s brilliant, River. I thought we could debut it tonight -”

 

A sharp, stinging slap cuts off the rest of his sentence quite effectively. John brings a hand to his smarting cheek and works his jaw in silence as River glares at him, tears in her eyes. Notebook clutched to her chest, she whispers, “How dare you.”

 

John watches helplessly as she turns on her heel and storms offstage, disappearing down a corridor. Ramone follows after her like a well-trained pup, calling her name. A door slams shut and John winces, listening to Ramone’s plaintive requests to be let in.

 

Vastra tuts quietly, shaking her head. “Another brilliant idea.”

 

“What?” John glares at her. “Like you’ve never violated your ex’s privacy to apologize before.”

 

She arches a brow at him. “Shockingly, no.”

 

Leaning against the piano, violin bow resting over her shoulder like a baseball player with a bat, Jenny stares at him incredulously. “Well go on then,” she shoos him backstage, waving her bow. “Fix it, you great idiot!”

 

“I’m going.” He stalks off after River still muttering under his breath. “Still not a bloody child.”

 

When he approaches River’s dressing room, Ramone is leaning against it and knocking gently. “River, come on,” he pleads, his voice soft and coaxing. “Please let me in, love.”

 

John rolls his eyes, shooing him out of the way. Hand balled into a fist, he beats it mightily against River’s door until it rattles in its frame. “River, open this fucking door and stop being such a petulant twit!”

 

Ramone chokes. “Is that really the best -”

 

“Shut it,” John growls, waving him off and shouting through the door again. “So I read your little book, so what? You pushed me out a window! Call it even, shall we?”

 

When he hears the lock turn, he swallows a triumphant grin and steps back. River swings open the door, peering out at him. “That was an _accident_ ,” she hisses.

 

“Yes, I know but it got you to open the door, didn’t it?” He shoves past her, ushering her into the room and slamming it shut again before Ramone can join them. He flips the lock and whirls to face her, clapping his hands together. “Now, if you’ll stop being so damn sensitive -”

 

“Don’t you dare,” she snarls, and he’s startled to realize she’s still blinking back tears. “You had no bloody right – that book is like my diary, John. It’s private and personal and you read it -”

 

“Because you wouldn’t talk to me!”

 

“So you thought you would, what? Mock me in revenge? Exploit my pain since your muse has dried up?” She wipes angrily at her cheek and smears her eye makeup, a little black smudge at the corner of her eye he wants to reach out and wipe away. “Just because those songs don’t mean a damn thing to you anymore doesn’t mean I feel the same.”

 

Speechless and frozen with longing, John stares at her and waits for the right thing to say, for the perfect way to fix the mess he’s made for himself just because he didn’t want to look weak. He’d learned a long time ago that River liked him best weak and sentimental but it’s been so long that he’d forgotten, built walls around himself in her absence in the hopes that nothing hurt again the way it had when she left.

 

Swallowing, he quietly prepares himself to start dismantling the wall again – brick by bitter brick. He holds up a hand. The rings stacked on his fingers that he never takes off catch the light. River watches, brow furrowed in incomprehension, as he begins slipping them off one by one. He tosses them all on the floor and they scatter in so many directions he has no hope of ever finding them again. He doesn’t care. The only one that matters is still on his finger – a thin, silver band that had been carefully concealed by the other, more ostentatious ones.

 

He waggles his hand at her, watching River’s eyes fill up and her mouth tremble. “Those songs mean as much to me now as they did the first time you sang them.” He drops his hand, skimming his thumb over his worn wedding ring as he steps toward her. “I think you forgot, dear, what a brilliant liar I am.”

 

River doesn’t move as he reaches her, doesn’t protest when he slides his fingers along her jaw and into her hair. Her eyes flutter shut and her mouth opens as he leans in and he barely hears her sharp, trembling breath over the pounding of his own heart. And then, for the first time in twenty years, he’s kissing River Song again.

 

She whimpers the moment their mouths meet, her fingers curling into his jacket as she presses herself against him and tips her head back. His eyes water and he keeps them firmly shut, clutching her to him with shaking hands. They kiss hungrily, mouths wet and desperate, colliding over and over again. She tastes familiar and alien all at once, like coming home after too long away. She tastes like the rush of a full stadium waiting to hear them sing, like leather and tea and getting the melody just right.

 

She tastes like the song he’s been searching for since she left.

 

River purrs, yanking him closer still, and the heat of her curves against him dissolves any coherent thought he might have had left. He growls low in his throat, nipping sharply at her bottom lip. His fingers are still fisted in her hair but River hasn’t the patience for staying still. Her hands slide up his arms, slipping under his coat and shoving it from his shoulders. John shrugs it off and barely registers it hitting the floor, far too busy dipping his head and reacquainting his needy tongue and sharp teeth with the elegant line of her throat.

 

She shudders under his attentions, arching her back, and he hides a smirk in the perfumed dip of her collarbone. After all this time, he still remembers how to make her speechless. “Missed you,” he whispers.

 

“And I you, honey.”

 

He feels River’s fingers tug at the collar of his t-shirt and when he realizes what she’s doing, his smile only grows. She’s sneaking an impatient, greedy little hand beneath his shirt to trace over his tattoos the way she always used to. John automatically returns the gesture, still too distracted to actually try undressing her. He maps her tattoos over her clothes, pressing calloused fingertips everywhere he knows she’s been marked.

 

The first one she ever got, on the small of her back when she was seventeen and drunk and thought the jagged outline of a river would be a brilliant first tattoo. Her shoulder, where she’d marked the occasion of her mother’s death with a sunflower. The constellation branded on the inside of her wrist. The back of her neck, near the line of her hair where a little bird nests out of sight unless one knows just where to look. The music note on her sternum – River trembles when he brushes his thumb over it. The inside of her elbow where her father’s birthday is etched in Roman numerals…

 

When he brushes his fingertips over the one on her ribcage, they both freeze.

 

His hand hovers over her ribs and his mouth grows dry as he contemplates the place where their wedding vows had once been and just what she’d done with them in the years they’ve been apart. He’s far too cowardly to look but River makes the decision for him, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw before she pulls away – just enough to lift her shirt and expose her side to him.

 

For a moment, he’s distracted by the golden skin on display but River takes his hand and presses it against her ribs, watching him hesitantly. He blinks, focusing on the words still tattooed into her skin in elegant black script. _Always & Completely_.

 

His eyes sting and he blinks again rapidly, tracing over the words with a shaking hand. River shudders, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and stroking her thumb over the back of his hand. It’s impossible to keep the disbelief and the awe from his voice as he rasps, “You kept it.”

 

River lifts a hand to stroke his cheek and when he manages to tear his gaze away from the tattoo to look at her, she’s smiling tearfully. “Of course I did.”

 

He sniffs, struggling not to get his hopes up. “Too painful to remove?”

 

She swats his lingering hand from her skin. “I wanted it, John.”

 

“Sorry,” he says, scowling. “Must have misunderstood when you packed and left for twenty years.”

 

River nearly growls at him, her eyes no longer soft and loving but utterly exasperated with him. It’s an expression that’s become as familiar as a favorite chair by now so he barely even minds. “I didn’t want to leave, you know.”

 

“Then why did you?” It’s only once the words are out that he realizes he’s been waiting to ask. It’s the question that’s been plaguing him all these years, the one that’s been on the tip of his tongue since the moment she walked back into his life months ago. Licking his lips, John allows his gaze to skitter uncertainly away from her and asks again, “Why did you leave, River?”

 

She shakes her head, eyes going wide. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

 

She tries to twist from his grasp, pushing at his chest, but John curls his fingers into loop of her jeans and refuses to let go. River avoids his intent gaze, looking everywhere but at him. “Running away again? I thought you were braver than that, dear.”

 

Her hands are still on his chest to shove him away but she doesn’t, scowling at her fingers instead as if she blames them for not cooperating. “It was ages ago, what does it matter?”

 

“It matters because I’ve spent twenty fucking years wondering,” he snaps, and River lifts her head, eyes wide as she finally meets his gaze. John struggles to keep his voice even and steady, fingers white-knuckled in the loops of River’s jeans like if he holds her tight enough now, she’ll never leave again. “What did I do wrong? Just tell me.”

 

River sags against him, her eyes watering and her hands slack against his chest. She drops her gaze and studies the tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt – the one in an ancient, circular language so long dead he doubts anyone even studies it anymore. River had designed it for him, claiming he was just ridiculous enough to make it work. Her eyes trace over it now, a gentle fingertip following the path.

 

John revels in her touch and barely breathes until she says, “Our lifestyle wasn’t exactly what one would call normal. Living out of hotels half the year and never having a real home or any privacy. You thrived on it. You loved the attention and the traveling and I hated all of it but the music. If I could have found some lonely corner of the world where it was just us and our music, I would have been happy.” She swallows, her fingertip tracing the same line on his chest over and over again. John watches her, his heart in his throat. “That would never have been enough for you. I would never have been enough.”

 

“That’s bullshit,” he snaps, and she flinches, shaking her head.

 

“No, it isn’t.” She looks up, her eyes searching his face desperately. “Just me? No bright lights, no packed concerts? Face it, John. You would never have been satisfied with that sort of simplicity. One day I just got tired of pretending and I… left.”

 

His fingers slip from her belt loops and he turns away from her, bracing himself against the wall behind him as he struggles to comprehend what he just learned. He clenches his jaw, huffing through his nose. “You wouldn’t have been enough? That must be why the moment you left I never sang for a crowd again. Why I stopped playing and became a sodding recluse, writing songs for other people.” He turns from the wall to face her again, glaring. “I valued the fucking _fame_.”

 

River balls her hands into fists, standing her ground. “That may be true now but we were so young, John. You wouldn’t have wanted to slow down. You needed the momentum -”

 

“I needed _you_!”

 

River snaps. “Well then maybe you should have said so!”

 

He stares at her, any protest dying on his tongue as River stares back at him, chest heaving and eyes angry and tear-filled. The silence between them is deafening. He’d made her leave, he realizes. He didn’t tell her nearly enough what she meant to him, didn’t cherish her the way he should have or show her every fucking day that she was always and completely loved. He was silent about his love for her and never sodding shut up about everything else. He had made her feel unimportant in comparison. So she’d left him to the life she thought he wanted and she took every decent piece of him with her.

 

All these years wondering what he’d done, what passing comment had been the one to make her pack her bags and walk away and instead the last straw hadn’t been a damn thing he’d said. It was all the things he’d never bothered to say.

 

John looks away, scrubbing a shaking hand over his face. “You had it wrong, River,” he rasps. “You were more than enough for me.” He swallows, turning from her and reaching for the door. “I’m the one who wasn’t nearly good enough.”

 

“John -”

 

He shuts the door behind him. Ramone is still waiting in the hallway, leaning sullenly against the wall opposite. The moment he notices John, he pins him with accusing brown eyes and John wonders absently just how much he’d heard. He doesn’t have the energy to antagonize him about it.

 

“She’s all yours,” he mutters, and walks away.


	6. the taste of love is sweet when hearts like ours meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d always thought he would feel better once he learned why she left, that he would be able to put the past behind him and move on, if not at peace then at least satisfied. Instead, now that he knows the truth he only feels worse. He knew that he’d failed River in many ways but he’d never imagined just how much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash. Songs used in this chapter include Dearly Departed by Shakey Graves and Montreal by Bahamas. 
> 
> Only a short epilogue left, which I'll post in another day or two most likely:)

Dublin is awkward. Considering how uncomfortable touring the world with his ex-wife has been so far, John supposes that says quite a lot. Since their confrontation in her dressing room, he can’t look at River without a sizable lump of regret making itself known in his throat.

 

He’d always thought he would feel better once he learned why she left, that he would be able to put the past behind him and move on, if not at peace then at least satisfied. Instead, now that he knows the truth he only feels worse. He dwells on those moments in her dressing room, lives in them – the way her voice cracked when she told him she could never have been enough, the absolute conviction shining in her eyes. She honestly thought she was right and that, he thinks, is the worst part. He knew that he’d failed River in many ways but he’d never imagined just how much.

 

As much trouble as he has looking at her, River seems to struggle just being in the same room with him. They don’t go out as a group anymore after shows, everyone retreating to their own separate corners – the Doctor stalking off sullenly with his guitar gripped on his hands and River leading Ramone off somewhere to snog, Vastra and Jenny standing in the middle with no clue what the hell happened.

 

Ever watchful, Clara notices the change but John refuses to explain and snarls something rude about her damned schedule until she gives up with a huff and says, “Fine. Have it your way.” She’d poked him in the chest, glaring. “But if it starts to affect your onstage chemistry, so help me God I will lock you two in a cupboard and throw away the key until I hear the sounds of makeup sex, got it?”

 

He’d grumbled – thinking with a brief ache of longing those fleeting, treasured kisses exchanged in River’s dressing room before it all went to hell – but Clara isn’t so easily dissuaded. She doesn’t pester him again herself, apparently realizing he’d rather get onstage and sing Britney Spears covers than open up to her. Instead she sends Vastra in her place and John’s old friend is far more skilled at prying secrets out of him.

 

They sit at the bar in their hotel, watching a couple of pudding brain Irishmen attempt to combine shots and a game of darts. Long green braid dangling over her shoulder and black varnished nails tapping against the side of her glass, Vastra watches him scowl into his drink and says, “You realize, of course, that you are an oblivious sod.”

 

He nods in agreement, frowns, and glances up. “What?”

 

She sighs. “You’re sitting here moping because of mistakes you made when you were a young idiot who took her for granted when River as good as said she still loves you -”

 

“When the hell did she say that?” John holds up a hand, sitting up straighter. “Did I miss something?”

 

“You missed many things, my friend.” Vastra eyes him fondly. “Thankfully, you have me to point them out to you.”

 

John arches a brow, violently squashing the hope bubbling in his stomach like butterflies. “Such as?”

 

“Such as she kept the tattoo.”

 

“She’s sentimental.”

 

“Such as she didn’t kick you out of her dressing room when you snogged her.”

 

“Well, I’m very good. Besides, old habits and all that.”

 

“Such as the reason she left wasn't because she no longer loved you.”

 

“No, she left because she thought I didn’t love her. I’m sure she’s just _gagging_ to have that sort of romance back in her life.”

 

Vastra sighs, glaring. “Such as mine and Jenny’s room is right between yours and the one River shares with Ramone. I know from when the two of you were together just how much ungodly noise that woman makes during sex but I haven’t heard a peep from their room in quite some time.”

 

Secretly pleased, John grumbles into his drink, “That just means Raymond is rubbish in bed.”

 

Vastra narrows her eyes. “You’re impossible. I take it you haven’t noticed he’s been sulking just as much as you have since your row with River.”

 

“Probably because he overheard me snogging the hell out of his childhood wank fantasy.” John snorts around a sip of scotch, licking his lips. “Before I fucked it all up again, anyway.”

 

“Honestly, you’re both acting like children forced to share the same toy,” Vastra snaps. “I don’t know why River would want either of you but it’s clear to me and anyone else with half a brain that she still cares for you. You told me she left because she thought she wasn’t enough.” Vastra studies him, blue eyes positively penetrating, and John struggles not to fidget under her gaze. “It’s up to you to rectify that.”

 

He swallows. “How?”

 

Vastra shrugs primly, turning to watch the surviving Irishmen set up another game of darts. “Perhaps you should start by doing what you do best.”

 

“I don’t see how inventive cursing will help anything.”

 

Offering him a dark look, Vastra clarifies, “Writing music, John. We both know you’ll bugger it up if you try to talk.”

 

He shakes his head. “That was my problem before – always writing bloody music and not saying any of it to her damned face.”

 

“This is different.” Vastra slides her glass across the bar and nudges it against his, catching his attention. “You’re not writing it for an audience. You’re writing it for River.”

 

He frowns. “I was always writing for River.”

 

Vastra downs the rest of her drink. “Well perhaps this time you should make sure she knows it.”

 

-

 

It’s impossible to concentrate in his hotel room, knowing River is only a few doors away. If he listens closely enough he can hear Ramone talking to the telly during a football match and he wonders where River is – if she’s curled up beside him and trying to distract him from the game or if she’s off in another room, huddled somewhere comfortable with her notebook and a pen.

 

He paces the length of his room and can’t find the right lyrics amid all the wrong ones jumbling around in his head. It’s nearing midnight when he grabs his coat and guitar case, leaving his room behind. The long walk does him good and he breathes in, watching as each exhale forms a visible cloud in the chilly air. By the time he finds himself in front of the venue for their show tomorrow night, he’s focused and ready to write.

 

He lets himself in with the lock-picking skills he’d learned from River a long time ago, slipping inside unnoticed and stalking through the unlit halls until he finds himself standing on an empty, dark stage. In a matter of hours, this place will be packed with fans. The equipment will be set up and lights will flood the stage but for now, the emptiness echoes around him and John revels in it, sinking to the floor to get started.

 

The lyrics flow as easily as breathing now as he sits cross-legged on the floor of the stage, guitar in his lap and papers spread out in front of him. He strums his guitar, murmuring the words under his breath and grumbling to himself when they don’t sound quite right. He scratches them out on the page in front of him, scribbling something else instead and starting all over again. It’s a simple melody with simple words, only meant to get his point across. No matter what Vastra says, he has a feeling River is going to need more than another pretty song before she falls back into his arms.

 

Or maybe he just needs to say it, to make things clear once and for all.

 

He’s so lost in the music that he doesn’t notice how much time has passed or that another person has joined him until a pair of familiar boots comes into view. He jumps, fingers slipping on the strings of his guitar and creating a godawful twang as he scrambles to snatch up his papers and hide them from her, stuffing them into his coat pockets.

 

River watches him silently, amusement glittering in her eyes.

 

John pats his pockets and sets aside his guitar, climbing to his feet. River looming over him like that will never do – too many naughty memories. He clears his throat in a belated attempt to appear nonchalant. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep.” She shrugs, still smiling faintly. “I thought I might come here and practice. Imagine my surprise when someone had already broken in.” She tilts her head, eyeing him quizzically. “What’s that you were playing? I couldn’t quite make out the words but I’ve never heard the melody before.”

 

He shrugs, quietly relieved she hadn’t heard much. “Just a little something I’m working on.”

 

River smiles. “It sounded beautiful.”

 

He ducks his head. “I can leave if you’d like to practice-”

 

“I don’t want you to leave, John,” she whispers.

 

He raises his head again, searching out her face in the dim stage lights. She looks at him oddly as she moves closer. There’s something familiar in her soft smile and the way her eyes shine. It hits him all of a sudden just how fucking beautiful she is and his breath catches, fingers twitching at his sides to touch her. The terrifying thing is he knows now that she might actually welcome it.

 

“Oh?” He licks his lips. “Well what did you -”

 

She doesn’t let him finish, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck and hauling him close enough to kiss. Her mouth crashes against his without warning and while in his younger days that might have been cause for a bit of flailing on his part, John is older now and twice as desperate as he ever was as a young man. He doesn’t hesitate to grip River’s hair in his hands and return her kiss with fervor.

 

This isn’t part of the plan, not at all. But River has always been rather rubbish at following his plans – especially when he doesn’t let her in on just what they are. Pushing her away is unthinkable so John merely sinks into her with abandon and tosses romantic plans like songwriting and confessions out the window. To hell with plans. Plans are rubbish.

 

They grip each other tightly, kissing like they bicker, pulling no punches and leaving no room for tenderness. Falling into old habits with River is as easy as sin and by the time they stumble backstage and slam violently into some unpacked sound equipment, River has her hands up under his shirt and the skirt of her black dress is bunched around her hips. She’s all warm curves and breathy sighs under his hands and she sings for him more beautifully than any musical instrument ever has. If it weren’t for her touch and her kiss anchoring him, he might have floated away with the euphoria of having her again.

 

River mouths at his collarbone, teeth playfully nipping at his skin, and John hisses into her hair. He’s so drunk on her his hand shakes as he slips his fingers into her knickers. Her thighs fall open readily and her head _thunks_ against the equipment behind her painfully but her eyes flutter shut and her mouth opens on a gasp as he finds the slick heat between her legs.

 

Her whine is throaty enough to make him sway a bit on his feet, weak-kneed by how much she still wants him. And Christ, he can _feel_ just how much she still wants him. “River,” he growls, and she arches her hips into his hand in answer. He touches her the way he knows she craves, eager and greedy and a wee bit too rough.

 

River melts, a puddle in his arms held up only by his palm cradling her sex. Heart in his throat, he grinds the heel of his hand against her and watches her sink her teeth into her bottom lip. She’s beautiful – wild-haired and determined to take what she likes and damn the consequences. She is unquestionably his River right now.

 

“Look at me,” he whispers. Her eyes flutter open and his stomach flares with heat when he sees them, hazy and unfocused, pupils blown wide with need. “Does he touch you like this? Your precious drummer boy?” She grits her teeth, hips still rolling against his hand, and doesn’t answer. He smirks, turning his head to brush his lips against her temple. “It’s alright, my dear. I know he doesn’t. If he did, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

 

“Bastard,” she hisses, and rakes her nails down his chest.

 

John winces, biting at her shoulder in retaliation until she whimpers. “Yours.”

 

Her hips buck against his hand and she whispers fiercely, “ _Yes_.”

 

He gentles his mouth against her shoulder, peppering her skin with kisses as he moves along the line of her throat. River softens against him, fingers slipping through his hair and hips moving eagerly against his slick hand. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his mind torn between feeling her against him and saying what needs to be said. “About before. About everything. You know I-”

 

_I love you I’m sorry I’ll be better don’t ever leave again –_

 

“Shh. None of that.” River slips her thigh between his legs and the rest of his words stall in his throat, forgotten in favor of the friction she offers with a wicked grin. She nips at his jaw and says, “This is just what we need.”

 

For a moment, as she grinds her thigh against his erection, his brain utterly short-circuits and nothing matters at all but the scent of her and the way she flutters wetly around his fingers and the sudden need to thrust mindlessly against her leg until he passes out. When her words register, they’re like a bucket of ice water poured over his head. He slips his hand from her knickers, gripping her hip to keep her still when she moans at the loss. “What did you say?”

 

River blinks at him, her eyes still a little unfocused and her lips swollen from his mouth. “You know,” she says lightly, shrugging. “Getting it all out of our systems.” She leans in, kissing one of the tattoos on his chest, but John barely notices. His throat suddenly feels too tight to breathe. “You’re a difficult man to get over, darling.”

 

Dread douses the heat in his gut and he takes a step back, already mourning the loss of her warmth as he stares blankly at his shoes and mutters, “Mutual.”

 

Still watching him uncertainly, skirt hiked up around her hips, River explains, “This way we can both move on.”

 

His heart wrenches as though she’d reached into his chest and plucked out the still-beating organ to stomp on it with her fucking motorcycle boot. “Move on?” He laughs dryly, feeling his eyes sting. “You think I can have you again and then just _move on_?”

 

“John?” River frowns, hastening to straighten the skirt of her dress and tug it down where it belongs. She takes a step forward, hand outstretched, and stares helplessly when he stumbles back and flinches. “Sweetie, what-”

 

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t you dare you use that fucking name.”

 

“Why are you being like this? I’m trying to help us – all we do is bicker when we’re together and I…” She swallows, looking pained as she admits, “I miss you. After what happened the last time we were alone together, I thought it might be best if we got past all this and try to at least be friends.”

 

“And you thought this was the best way to go about it?” He laughs shortly. “You weren’t trying to help us. You were trying to help yourself but it’s never going to work, dear. You can dress like someone else, hide your tattoos and tame your hair, date a string of pudding brain lads, hell you can even deny I ever loved you, and none of it’s going to change who you are or what we were.”

 

“Fuck you,” she whispers, voice shaking. “How dare you act like you know anything about me anymore -”

 

“I’m the only one who does,” he snaps, watching her pale. “Your pretty distraction hasn’t been there since the beginning and he only knows what you show him but that doesn’t work with me. I know what you’re like when you’re so spitting mad you want to hit something – usually me. I know when you’re sad and trying to hide it from me; I know the exact look you get in your eyes when you want to snog me. I know every smile, real or fake. Every nightmare, every scar. I know you’d rather die than cry in front of people. I know you’re embarrassingly sentimental even though you try to hide it. I know you haven’t been to New York since your mother died. I know every single damn thing there is to know about you so don’t you _dare_ stand there and pretend with me.”

 

River stares at him, unblinkingly and shaken. “And yet,” she whispers, “You didn’t know I was going to leave, did you?”

 

“I always expected you to leave me, River. I just hoped you never would.” Deflating, John sighs and scrubs a tired hand over his face. “I don’t know what you want from me. You want to move on? Stop torturing me and fucking do it then.”

 

“Oh and it’s that easy, is it?” She snarls, and he blinks at her, startled by the sudden rush of tears in her eyes. River never cries. “That’s rich coming from the man who still wears his wedding ring.” He flinches. “Pining might work fine for you, John, but it’s been twenty years and I’d actually like to succeed in moving on with my life!”

 

Swallowing, he ducks his head so she won’t see just how much the admission hurts. “I wish you luck then,” he says hoarsely. “But I won’t let you use me to do it.” He lifts his head and meets her gaze steadily. “My heart couldn’t bear it.”

 

Her face falls at that and he looks away again, wondering how in the span of a few short minutes he went from having her in his arms to losing her all over again. “John,” she begins softly, voice quiet and full of regret. “I thought you – You must know I-” She sighs and he listens to her footsteps as she approaches cautiously. “I suppose I’ve ruined everything now, haven’t I?”

 

He closes his eyes when she leans in, brushing her lips gently against his cheek.

 

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

 

By the time he opens his eyes again, her footsteps have faded away and only the scent of her lingers. He sighs into the empty air, casts a glance around the darkened stage, and moves with heavy limbs to gather his things.

 

It’s late when he makes it back to the hotel and up to his room and he’s in no mood for the sight that greets him – Ramone slouched outside his door, clearly waiting for him. Guitar case slung over his shoulder and sheet music clenched in his hand, John fumbles around for his key and does his best to ignore his new welcome mat.

 

Ramone scrambles to his feet as he approaches. “John, hello. Look, I wanted to talk to you about -”

 

“Unless the end of that sentence is _quitting the band_ , I really don’t care,” he mutters, grunting in triumph when he locates his room key.

 

“Actually, it’s about River.”

 

He sighs. “Isn’t everything?”

 

“What do you – no, never mind. Not important.” Ramone shakes his head, leaning against the door as John shoves his key into the lock. “She’s been really off lately, have you noticed? There was that incident at the club the other week – I’ve never seen her like that. She’s always so… patient and kind.”

 

John snorts.

 

“And now she’s always snapping at me and she’s even been refusing sex -”

 

Shuddering, John nearly snaps his key card in half and snarls, “Is there a point to this?”

 

“Right, sorry -”

 

Pushing open the door to his room and lingering in the doorway just so he won’t have to invite the idiot in, he sighs. “Please tell me you’re not asking me, her ex-husband, for relationship advice.”

 

“No, of course not.” Ramone flushes. “She’s just so different. I was hoping you might know what’s bothering her.”

 

He doesn’t want to feel sorry for the lad and honestly he doesn’t know a damn thing about River but at least he seems to care. John sighs and says a bit more patiently than he might have otherwise, “If she wanted you to know, she’d have told you.”

 

Ramone sulks, muttering, “She never tells me anything.”

 

“What a pity,” John says, brightening a bit. “I’ll leave you to contemplate what that means.”

 

With that, he slips inside his room and shuts the door in Ramone’s face.

 

-

 

River treats him like splintered glass during rehearsals the next morning, as if one wrong word or a glance too harsh will make him shatter. He gives no indication that last night had even happened, hoping to put her at ease. He acts like he would any other time, as if he didn’t have her words rattling around in his head and her mouth on his burned into his memory.

 

He leaves as soon as rehearsals are through and spends the day holed up in his hotel room with his guitar, avoiding her and Ramone and everyone else but Vastra – who keeps interrupting his work to text him ridiculous heart emojis and call it encouragement. _Until you’ve got your muse again_ , she’d typed.

 

_What makes you so sure I’ll succeed? Know something I don’t?_

_Only what everyone besides the two of you can see._

_And what’s that, O Wise One?_

 

_Spoilers_.

 

He’d harrumphed and tossed his mobile aside, cursing Vastra under his breath as he began practicing all over again. The hours pass quickly and before he knows it, it’s time to face River once more.

 

They meet backstage – the same place where mere hours ago he’d touched her again and heard her sigh his name. The crowd is roaring on the other side of the curtains, restless and eager for the show to begin. Through the chaos, John meets River’s gaze and she’s already looking back at him. Her eyes are soft and hopeful, full of such regret it nearly steals his breath.

 

“John, about last night -”

 

“Don’t mention it,” he interrupts, watching her deflate. “We got carried away.”

 

“Right,” she mutters, glancing away. “Yes, I suppose we did.”

 

“Won’t happen again.” He hides a smirk when River frowns at her hands and looks rather disappointed, wondering if Vastra might be onto something after all. “And I cross my wee black heart I won’t breathe a word of it to Raymond.”

 

“Who?” River blinks, lifting her head. After a moment of watching him gaze at her expectantly, her expression clears and she nods, looking abashed. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

 

He nods, thinking of the brand new sheet music in his pocket and the copy already resting on Vastra’s piano, thinking of _I miss you_ and _until you have your muse again_. “Ready to put on a good show then?”

 

River musters a smile. “Always.”

 

They open with a fan favorite duet, sharing a microphone and flirting for a crowd who eats up every moment, screaming with glee and singing along. Guitar hanging at his back, John leans into their microphone. _“You used to bite, I used to moan.”_

 

He waggles his eyebrows and the audience laughs, watching in delight as River leans in and purrs, _“But now I’m mumbling and you choke.”_

 

_“Well it ain’t so scary on my own.”_

 

_“Tell me, honey, what’s a dagger without a cloak?”_ River strokes his cheek and the crowd delights in it. The outrageous onstage seduction is half the reason they keep coming back for more and River is nothing if not generous in giving it to them.

 

She watches him hesitantly as she touches him, as though he might not welcome it any longer. The relief on her face is heart-warming when he captures her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. Her eyes light up and her voice grows stronger. A smile curls the corners of his mouth and John listens to her sing the next verse.

 

He’s so engrossed in watching her flirt with the microphone that he misses his cue. River glances at him, arching a brow and nudging him as if to say _it’s your turn, idiot_. John keeps gazing at her but he doesn’t try to sing. Instead, he waves a hand behind his back and the music comes to a stop around them.

 

The audience begins to murmur but John ignores them, watching River glance around in bewilderment as the music starts up again – an entirely different, softer melody this time. “You know I love singing with you, dear.”

 

Still looking puzzled, River flirts, “Thank you, sweetie.”

 

The crowd laughs.

 

John reaches for his guitar strap, pulling the instrument from behind his back and adjusting it in front of him instead. “But I worked on a little something last night I’d like you to hear.”

 

“Oh?” She’s still playing to the audience, pretending she’s in on the joke.

 

No matter, she’ll see he’s serious soon enough. He leans toward the microphone, fingers sliding along the neck of his guitar, strumming out the opening chords.

 

_“When we started out_

_I had my doubts_

_I let them in_

_Now it can’t begin_

_When I apologize_

_I see it in your eyes_

_You don’t give a damn_

_Honey please_

_Don’t give up on your man-”_

 

River clasps a hand over the microphone between them, cutting him off. She gapes at him, her eyes wide and panicked. “What the hell are you doing, John?”

 

“Serenading you,” he answers patiently. “You’re making it rather difficult, dear.”

 

Their audience laughs and for a moment, it’s just like the old days again. They were always arguing onstage. Occasionally John would get fed up playing guitar on songs River had written about what an arsehole he was or River would tire of singing songs he’d written about their sex life and they would go off script, chiming in with cheeky verses they’d make up on the spot. No one ever seemed to mind, far too entertained by the electricity between them. Even now, twenty years later, they’ve got the crowd eating out of the palms of their hands.

 

River frowns, glancing between the audience and John and the rest of the band behind her. Vastra and Jenny are grinning at her knowingly. Only Ramone looks as lost as she does. Shaking her head, she returns her attention warily to John. “Why?”

 

“Well, your hand is over the microphone and -”

 

“No,” she sighs, glaring. “Why are you serenading me?”

 

“Because you deserve it.” He refuses to glance at the crowd, keeping his attention fixed on River – her watering eyes and parted lips, the rosy flush in her cheeks. He’d been right before. She needs a hell of a lot more from him than a song. “You deserve a lot of things I never gave you. I should have told you last night but I’m rubbish at saying it any other way but this.”

 

He glances helplessly at the guitar in his grasp and River clears her throat. “John -”

 

“Shut it,” he says, tossing her a fond look. “I’m not finished.”

 

“Go on then.” She bites her lip, crossing her arms over her chest. “A girl could get old waiting on you.”

 

He glares but River smirks and his irritation falls away in an instant, defenseless against her and her wiles. “I thought it was enough before, writing you all those love songs. I didn’t realize how much you needed to hear it, away from the lights and the crowds.” He grimaces. “Which honestly makes this a rubbish place to start over but singing to you outside your window seemed a wee bit like a bad eighties film.”

 

River laughs softly, staring at him in wonder. “Start over?”

 

He smiles. “Do you know why I wanted to call our band Darillium?”

 

“It’s the city where we met.”

 

“Partly,” he admits, and takes a breath. He isn’t one for spilling out his heart in front of thousands of people. Or even a few. In fact, there’s only one person he can stand the thought of opening up to. So he looks at River and only River, and he pushes on. “It was the towers there too. Eighth natural wonder of the world – standing tall for millions of years through storms and floods, ravaged by wars and time.” He lifts a hand to her cheek, his heart buoyed when River turns her face into his palm, nuzzling her cheek against his hand. Her eyes never leave his. “But even now, when the wind stands fair and the night is perfect…” He swallows, smiling softly, thumb stroking over her skin. “They still sing.”

 

River releases a faint, watery laugh and reaches for him, her warm hand wrapping around the back of his neck and leaning up on her toes, crashing her mouth against his. He catches the rest of her soft laughter in his mouth, tucking it beneath his tongue for safekeeping. Relief floods him at once and he clutches her to him, his guitar trapped between them. It can’t be comfortable, pressed against it like she is but she kisses him like she doesn’t want to be anywhere else, all tongue and teeth and soft moans, her hot little hands on his face.

 

Around them, he faintly registers the sound of the audience losing their minds and the band still playing but he carries on with River as if they’re quite alone. His mouth lingers against hers, reluctant to be parted from her. He strokes her curls from her face and wipes a traitorous tear from the corner of her eye. “River?”

 

Her fingers card through his hair, stroking tenderly at the back of his head. “Hmm?”

 

“We’re going to need a new drummer.”

 

“What?” She glances over her shoulder. The seat behind the drum set is empty, Ramone nowhere in sight. River sags against him with a sigh. “I hate you.”

 

John grins, wide and unrepentant, nuzzling her cheek when she turns and buries her face against his neck. “No you don’t.”


	7. epilogue: we got married in a fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the brief conclusion:) Sorry it took longer than planned but it's been a busy week. Let me know what you think!
> 
> OH. And I made a fanmix to go with this fic which you can find [here](http://8tracks.com/hisgirlfriday/we-get-old-and-get-used-to-each-other-a-playlist-for-the-band-darillium)
> 
> Chapter title taken from Jackson by Johnny Cash and June Carter.

**‘ALWAYS AND COMPLETELY’ REUNITED?**

 

_Considering their very public reunion, it’s not news to anyone that the turbulent relationship between Darillium’s lead singer and guitarist is back on again after a twenty year separation but what readers don’t know is that the pair eloped after the final show of their world tour on Friday._

_According to reports, John Smith and River Song of the band Darillium married in a private ceremony in Berlin and jetted off to their honeymoon at an undisclosed location. Speculation abounds as to what will happen next but sources close to the couple say they’ve never been happier. This newsroom wishes them all the best and secretly hopes this means new music from Darillium is on the way!_

 

-

 

“Sweetie, this is getting ridiculous.”

 

John winds an arm around her waist, guiding her out of the car. “Oh shut it, we’re almost there. And don’t you dare open your eyes.”

 

River huffs. “They’re shut. They’ve been shut for the last twenty minutes while you drove around in circles.”

 

“I was not driving in circles, I was driving here.”

 

“And where is here, exactly?”

 

John maneuvers her where he wants her, peers over her shoulder to make sure the angle is just right, and finally moves around so that he can see her face properly. In a flimsy sundress and motorcycle boots, blossoms tucked into her hair and eyes firmly shut, her mouth turned down in exasperated impatience, she is the very picture of everything he’d missed about her. Biting back a wide grin, John says fondly, “Alright, dear. You can look.”

 

River opens her eyes, taking in the secluded little house he’d found on the outskirts of Darillium – as blue as her treasured notebook. “It’s a house,” she observes, squinting at it like she must be missing something.

 

John nods, hands behind his back as he turns to survey it with her. “There’s a garden round the back, thought you might like that. And I made sure there was a little studio where you can go and write and get away from me when I’m irritating you and -”

 

She reaches out a hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. “Darling, why have you brought me to a house in the middle of bloody nowhere?”

 

He smiles. “Because I bought it.”

 

“You what?”

 

“It’s about thirty minutes from Darillium proper. I timed it. We’re close enough that we won’t feel like we’re on the edge of the world but far enough away we won’t have to deal with people if we don’t feel like it.” River keeps staring at him in silence so he scratches his cheek and glances anxiously back at the blue house. “As good a place as any to settle down, I think.”

 

Her eyes widen and he feels her grip on his wrist tighten, her nails biting into his skin. “Settle down?”

 

“For a while,” he admits, carefully uncurling her hand from his wrist and kissing the back of it. “Or forever. For as long as we want to be away from the spotlight.”

 

“John -”

 

“You said I needed all the other things to be happy and you were wrong. I don’t need any of it, River. I just need you.” He meets her gaze steadily, eyes warm and open and earnest. “Let me prove it to you.”

 

River swallows, looking shaken. “You don’t have to do this, John.”

 

“It’s already done.” He nods toward the house. “There’s a twenty-four year mortgage payment plan on this place so I’m stuck here for at least that long.”

 

She laughs, a watery, joyful chuckle that settles around his heart like a balm.

 

“Could use some company,” he ventures, smiling. “If you’re up to it.”

 

“You sentimental idiot,” River whispers, dragging him in by the collar for a kiss. John sways into her eagerly, his hands splayed on her hips and his mouth smiling against hers. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

 

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” he reminds her. “I’ll work from home, writing songs for other people.”

 

River smiles. “I’ll help.”

 

“You always do, muse.” John presses a kiss against her temple. “Any suggestions?”

 

She nods, turning her head until their noses brush and he nearly goes cross-eyed trying to look at her. Biting her lip, she answers, “You might want to start with lullabies.”

 

John blinks at her in surprise.

 

River watches him, wary and uncertain, a smile hiding in the corners of her lovely mouth. And he can’t quite believe that he’s here, twenty years of life without her behind him and at least twenty-four more with her ahead of him. Twenty-four years of the little blue house and River and _this_. He laughs, louder and longer than he has in a long time as he wraps her in his arms and lifts her off her feet, delighting in her relieved giggle in his ear.

 

“A lullaby,” he agrees into her hair, still grinning like an idiot. “A rock and roll lullaby.”

 

“Sweetie,” River says, her smile against his ear. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


End file.
